I m por t a n t n ot e :

All t h e se e ssa ys a r e st r ict ly for r e fe r e n ce on ly. An y for m of copyin g or im it a t ion is

con side r e d pla gia r ism a n d h e n ce se ve r e ly pu n ish e d by a dm ission office r s.
Re m e m be r t h a t t h e se 5 0 e ssa ys a r e ve r y popula r a n d h a ve be e n a r oun d for a ve r y
lon g t im e ( pr oba bly e ve n be for e you w e r e bor n!) . Th e r e for e , t h e a dm ission office r s
a r e VERY fa m ilia r w it h t h e m . Aga in , do N OT copy or im it a t e a n yt h in g fr om t h e se
e ssa ys if you w a n t t o su cce e d.

哈佛 5 0 篇e ssa y- - 1 。塑造自我

A Form at ion of Self

Before even t ouching t he cam era, I m ade a list of som e of t he phot ographs I would
t ake: web covered wit h wat er, grim ace reflect ed in t he calculat or screen, hand
holding a t iny round m irror where j ust m y eye is visible, cat ’s st riped underbelly as
he j um ps t oward t he lens, m anhole covers, hand holding a t ranslucent sect ion of
orange, pinkies part aking of a pinkie swear, m idsect ion wit h j eans, hair held out
sideways at arm ’s lengt h, bot t om of foot , soap on face. This, I t hink is akin t o a
form at ion of self. Perhaps I have had t he revelat ions even if t he phot os are never
t aken.
I already know t he dual st rains t he biographers will t alk about , st rains t wist ing
t hrough a life. The com binat ion is em bodied here: I writ e j oyfully, in t he m argin of
m y lab book, beside a diagram of a beaker, “ I solat ed it t oday, Beaut iful wispy
st rands, spider webs suspended below t he surface, delicat e t endrils, cloudy whit e,
lyrical, elegant DNA! This is DNA! So beaut iful!”
I should have been a Renaissance m an. I t kills m e t o choose a field ( t o choose
bet ween t he sciences and t he hum anit ies! ) . My m ind roam s, I wide- eyed, int o
infinit e caverns and loops. I should fly! Let m e devour t he air, dissolve everyt hing
int o m y bloodst ream , learn!

The elem ent s are boundless, but , if asked t o isolat e t hem , I can see t angles around
m edicine and writ ing. The t rick will be t o int egrat e t hem int o a whole, and t hen
m aybe I can t ake t he phot ograph. Aahh, is it already t here, no? Can’t you see it ? I
invoke t he Daedalus in m e, everyt hing t hat has gone int o m aking m e, hoping it will
be m y liberat ion.
Music is one such elem ent . The experience of plying in an orchest ra from t he inside
is an invest igat ion int o subj ect ivit y. I t is rem iniscent of Heisenberg’s uncert aint y
principle: t he m ore one knows t he speed of a part icle, t he less one knows it s
posit ion. Nam ely t he posit ion of t he observer m at t ers and affect s t he subst ance of
t he observat ion; even science is em bracing em bodim ent . I see splashes of bright
rain in violin arpeggios fading away in singed circles, a clarinet solo fades blue t o
black, and a flut e harm ony leaves us m oving sideways, a pregnant silence, t he
t rum pet s int errupt wit h t he sm ell of light ning. Perhaps in t he audience you would
sense som et hing else.
I t hink of rowing as m edit at ion. Pshoow, huh, aaah; pshoow, huh, aaah. I can close
m y eyes and st ill hear it . We glide over reflect ed sky… and lean. And defy t he request
for “ leadership posit ions,” laugh at it , because it m isses t he ent ire point , t hat we are
int egral, one organism . I hear t he oars cut t he wat er, shunk shunk; t here are no
leaders.
Once I heard an echo from all quart ers. “ Do not rush,” said t he conduct or, “ follow t he
bat on.” “ Do not rush,” said t he coach, “ wat ch t he body in front of you.” Do not rush.
I writ e about charact ers’ words: how t hey use words, how t hey m anipulat e t hem ,
how t hey creat e t heir own realit ies; words used dangerously, flippant ly, t alking at
cross purposes, deliberat ely being vague; t he nat ure of t alking, of words and
realit ies. Perhaps m ine has been a flight of fancy t oo. But , com e on, it ’s in t he words,
a person, a locus, som ewhere in t he words. I t ’s all words. I love t he words.
I should be a writ er, but I will be a doct or, and out of t he philosophical t ension I will
creat e a self.

ANALYSI S
This essay is a good exam ple of an essay t hat shows rat her t han t ells t he reader who
t he aut hor is. Through excit ed language and illust rat ive anecdot es, she offers a
com plex pict ure of her m ult ifacet ed nat ure.
The writ ing is as fluid as it s subj ect m at t er. One paragraph runs int o t he next wit h
lit t le break for t ransit ion or explicit connect ion. I t has t he feel of an ecst at ic
st ream - of- consciousness, m oving rapidly t oward a clim act ic end.
The aut hor is as im m ediat e as she is m yst erious. She creat es and int im at e
relat ionship wit h her reader, while cont inuously keeping him / her “ in t he dark” as she
j um ps from one m ent al t wist t o anot her.
She openly exposes her charged t hought s, yet leaves t he t ies bet ween t hem
uncem ent ed. This creat es an unpredict abilit y t hat is risky but effect ive.

St ill, one ought t o be wary in present ing as essay of t his sort . The pot ent ial for
obliqueness is high, and, even here, t he reader is at t im es left in confusion
regarding t he coherence of t he whole. Grant ed t he essay is about confluence of
seem ing opposit es, but poet ic license should not obscure im port ant cont ent . This
part icular essay could have been m ade st ronger wit h a m ore explicit recurring
t hem e t o help keep t he reader focused.
I n general, t hough, t his essay st ands out as a bold, im passioned present at ion of self.
I t lingers in t he m em ory as an ent angled web of an int ricat e m ind.
“Gr ow in g Up”

“ Growing Up”
I ’m short . I ’m five foot five – well, five foot six if I want t o im press som eone. I f t he
average height of Am erican m en is five foot t en, t hat m eans I ’m nearly half a foot
short er t han t he average Joe out t here. And t hen t here are t he basket ball players.
My height has always been som et hing t hat ’s set m e apart ; it ’s helped define m e. I t ’s
j ust t hat as long as I can rem em ber, I haven’t liked t he definit ion very m uch. Every
Sunday in grade school m y dad and I would wat ch ESPN Prim et im e Foot ball. Playing
wit h friends at hom e, I always im agined t he boom ing ESPN voice of Chris Berm an
giving t he play- by- play of our st reet foot ball gam es. But no m at t er how well I
perform ed at hom e wit h friends, during school recess t he st igm a of “ short kid” st uck
wit h m e while choosing t eam s.
St ill concerned as senior year rolled along, I visit ed a growt h specialist . Pacing t he
exam room in a shaky, ellipt ical orbit worried, “ What if I ’ve st opped growing? Will
m y social st at us forever be m arked by m y short ness?” I n a grade school dream , I
im agined Chris “ ESPN” Berm an’s voice as he analyzed t he fant ast ic cat ch I had
m ade for a t ouchdown when – wit h a st art – t he doct or st rode in. dam p wit h nervous
sweat , I sat quiet ly wit h m y m om as he showed us t he X- ray t aken of m y hand. The
bones in m y sevent een- year- old body had m at ured. I would not grow any m ore.
Whoa. I clenched t he st eering wheel in frust rat ion as I drove hom e. What good were
m y grades and “ college t ranscript ” achiev
of t he short kid? What good was it t o pray, or t o genuinely live a life of love? No
m at t er how m any Taekwondo m edals I had won, could I ever be considered t ruly
at hlet ic in a wiry, five foot five fram e? I could be dark and handsom e, but could I
ever be t he “ t all” in “ t all, dark and handsom e” ? All I want ed was som eone special t o
look up int o m y eyes; all I want ed was som eone t o ask, “ Could you reach t hat for
m e?”
I t ’s been hard t o deal wit h. I haven’t answered all t hose quest ions, but I have
learned t hat height isn’t all it ’s m ade out t o be. I ‘d rat her be a short er,
com passionat e person t han a t all t yrant . I can be a giant in so m any ot her ways:
int ellect ually, spirit ually and em ot ionally.

I ’ve ironically grown t aller from being short . I t ’s enriched m y life. Being short has
cert ainly had it s advant ages. During elem ent ary school in eart hquake- prone
California for exam ple, m y t eachers const ant ly praised m y “ duck and cover ” skills.
The school budget was t ight and t he desks were so sm all an occasional lim b could
always be seen st icking out . Yet Chris Shim , “ blessed” in height , always m anaged t o
squeeze him self int o a com pact and safe fet al posit ion. The sam e qualit y has paid off
in hide- and- go- seek. ( I ’m t he unofficial cham pion on m y block.)
Lincoln once debat ed wit h Senat or St ephen A. Douglas – a m agnificent orat or,
nat ionally recognized as t he leader of t he Dem ocrat ic Part y of 1858… and barely five
feet four inches t all. I t seem s silly, but st anding on t he floor of t he Senat e last year
I rem em bered Senat or Douglas and im agined t hat I would one day debat e wit h a
fut ure president . ( I t helped t o have a t all, lanky, bearded m an wit h a st ove- t op hat
t alk wit h m e t hat aft ernoon.) But I could j ust as easily becom e an ast ronaut , if not
for m y childlike, gaping- m out h- eyes- st raining wonderm ent of t he st ars, t hen
m aybe in t he hope of growing a few inches ( t he spine spont aneously expands in t he
absence of gravit y) .
Even at five feet , six inches, t he act or Dust in Hoffm an held his own against Tom e
Cruise in t he m ovie Rainm an and went on t o win his second Academ y Award for Best
Act or. Michael J. Fox ( 5’5” ) const ant ly uses t aller act ors t o his com edic advant age.
Height has enhanced t he at hlet icism of “ Muggsy” Bogues, t he short est player in t he
hist ory of t he NBA at five foot t hree. He’s used t hat edge t o lead his basket ball t eam
in st eals ( t hey don’t call him “ Muggsy” for not hing) . Their height has put no lim it s t o
t heir work in t he art s or at hlet ics. Neit her will m ine.
I ’m five foot five. I ’ve st ruggled wit h it at t im es, but I ’ve realized t hat being five- five
can’t st op m e from j oining t he Senat e. I t won’t st em m y dream of becom ing an
ast ronaut ( I even have t he applicat ion from NASA) . My height can’t prevent m e
from direct ing a m ovie and excelling in Taekwondo ( or even basket ball) . At five foot
five I can laugh, j um p, run, dance, writ e, paint , help, volunt eer, pray, love and cry.
I can break 100 in bowling. I can sing along t o Nat King Cole. I can recit e Audrey
Hepburn’s lines from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I can run t he m ile in under six m inut es,
dance like a wild m onkey and be hopelessly wrapped up in a good book ( t hough I
have yet t o m ast er t he abilit y t o do it all at once) . I ’ve learned t hat m y height , even
as a defining charact erist ic, is only a part of t he whole. I t won’t lim it m e. Besides,
t his way I ’ll never out grow m y favorit e sweat er.

ANALYSI S
“ Growing Up” follows t he form of discussing a physical or charact er t rait , and
exploring it s im pact on one’s life. Shim ’s st rat egy is for t he reader t o underst and his
frust rat ions wit h his height , a physical charact erist ic t hat has played a great role in
t he way he sees him self am ong his fam ily, friends, and peers.

This piece works because it is t o t he point , honest , and st raight- forward. The
opening, “ I ’m short ,” delivers a clear m essage t o t he reader of t he essay’s m ain idea.
As t he essay progresses, Shim reveals his personal feelings and aspirat ions. He
gives us a window int o t he very m om ent of discovery t hat he would no longer be
able t o grow. We are t aken on a t our of what m akes Shim t ick. Being short has
shaped and influenced his out look on t he world, yet it has not dim inished his goals.
I t is personal, yet rem ains posit ive. He recognizes bot h t he benefit s and negat ives of
his short st at ure and is able t o convey t hem in a t hought ful m anner. Furt herm ore,
t he essay not only let s us int o Shim ’s t hought s on being sm all but t ells us his varied
int erest s in polit ics, space explorat ion, sport s, and t he art s. Shim hasn’t j ust t old us
how his height “ doesn’t lim it him ” he has shown us why.
“Pie ce s of M e ”

“ Pieces of Me”
- - - - Sandra E. Pullm an

The black and whit e com posit ion book is faded, and t he corners are bent . I t doesn’t
lie flat as m any paper clips m ark favorit e places. Alm ost every sheet is covered wit h
writ ing – som e in bold handwrit ing hardly revised, ot hers uncert ainly j ot t ed down
com plet ely m arked up and rewrit t en. Flipping t hrough t he t hin pages, I sm ile,
rem em bering from careless t hought s t o assassinat e prose t o precisely worded
poem s, t his j ournal m arks a year of m y life as a writ er.
I n j unior year, m y English t eacher asked us t o keep a j ournal for creat ive writ ing, as
a release from ot herwise st ressful days. We were free t o writ e on any t opic we chose.
From t hen on as oft en as I could, I would st eal away t o t he old wooden rocking chair
in t he corner of m y room and t ake t im e off t o writ e.
As I now t ry t o answer t he quest ion of who am I for t his essay, I im m ediat ely t hink
of m y j ournal.

I am a writ er.
My writ ing is t he m ost int ensely personal part of m e. I pour m y heart out int o m y
j ournal and am incredibly prot ect ive of it . I t ’s difficult for m e t o handle crit icism or
change rej ect ion:
I can t ell he wouldn’t read it right wouldn’t let t he m eaning sink int o him slow and
delicious it would sound awful t hrough his careless eyes I want him t o open him self
up t o it and let in a piece of m e I want him t o know t his side of m e no one ever has
I want him t o be t he one t o underst and let m e see he prods once m ore I t ell m yself
t his t im e I ’ll do it I let m yself go but as it passes int o his rough hands I see it for t he
first t im e it ’s awkward and wrong j ust like m e I snat ch it back from him and crum ble
it it falls wit h hardly a noise int o t he t rash

I am a child.
Growing up, I would always ride m y bike over t o t he elem ent ary school across t he
st reet and int o t he woods behind it . Crab apple t rees scent ed t he fall air and t he
winding dirt pat hs went on forever. I ’d drop m y bike at t he base of a t ree and clim b
as high as I could. All aft ernoon I would sit in t hese t rees whose branches curved out
a seat seem ingly m ade j ust for m e.
One day I biked across t he st reet t o com e face t o face wit h const ruct ion t rucks.
Those woods are now a parking lot . I cry every t im e I see cars parked where m y crab
apple t rees once st ood:
He allowed t he sweet sadness t o linger
As he cont em plat ed a world
That he knew t oo m uch about .

I am a daught er, a cousin, a great- niece.

My fam ily is very im port ant t o m e. My m ot her has a huge ext ended fam ily and we all
get t oget her once a year for a reunion. I play wit h m y lit t le cousins and t oss t hem in
t he air t o t heir squealing delight . Many of m y relat ives are elderly, however, and I
find it hard t o deal wit h serious illness in t hese people I love. I am also deat hly afraid
of growing old and losing all sense of m yself. When visit ing relat ives, I have t o com e
t o t erm s wit h t hese feelings:
Wit h t he t oe of m y sneaker, I push at t he ancient pale yellow carpet . Like all t he
it em s in t he apart m ent , it is way past it s prim e. I t is m at t ed down in m ost places,
pressed int o t he floor from years of people’s shoes t raversing back and fort h. I t will
never be as nice as it once was, t hat m uch is cert ain. At hom e it would be pulled up,
t hrown out , not t olerat ed in an ever- m oving young fam ily, not fit t ing in wit h all t he
useful, m odern surroundings. But here, in t his foreign, m ust y apart m ent where m y
great- aunt and uncle have lived so long t hat t hey seem t o blend right int o t he faded
wallpaper, t he carpet is a part of t he scenery. I t could not be rem oved any m ore t han
t he floor it self.

I am a friend.
I will always t reasure m em ories of sleep- away cam p and t he friends I fell in love
wit h t here. Many of t hese people I have m anaged t o keep in t ouch wit h, but I regret
t hat som e I have lost :
But now… t he weat her is changing. A cold front has m oved in. t he pict ure is barely
not iced. Perhaps ot her pict ures of ot her m em ories bright er and newer hide it from
view. A cool breeze st eals in t hrough t he open window, and t he careless wind knocks
down an old pict ure from t he bullet in board. The pict ure falls in slow m ot ion, t aking
wit h it a far- off m em ory. I t com es t o rest behind t he desk, lying on t he floor, never
t o be seen again. I t s absence is not even not iced.

I am an incurable rom ant ic.

Leaving a part y one night , I forgot t o ret urn t he sweat shirt I had borrowed:
Touching t he sm all hole
I n t he bot t om corner
And t he st ray t hread
Unraveling t he sleeve
I lift it up
And breat he in it s sm ell
I sm ile quiet ly
I t sm ells like him

I am a dream er.
I oft en sit in class and let m y im aginat ion t ake m e wherever I want t o go. I love t o
read st ories of m yt hic Cam elot or t he legendary Old Sout h, losing m yself in m y
favorit e books:
The t hree dim ensional
Kaleidoscope fant asy
Of far- off lands
And court ly kingdom s
Of passion and rom ance
And high seas advent ure
I s shining wit h vivid colors
And singing wit h non- st op noise

My j ournal from elevent h grade not only chronicles a year of m y life, but it t ells t he
st ory of who I am . I t is t he closest I can get t o even beginning t o answer t hat difficult
quest ion:
Tell t hem she says j ust t ell t hem who you are let t hem know what m akes you t ick
t ick t ick t he clock is count ing down I can’t wait t o get out of here j ust a far m ore
m inut es sm ile and pret end you care t ell t hem who I am in 358 words double- spaced
12 point font as if I even know as if I could even if I did on a single sheet of paper
why I cry why I laugh why I want so badly t o go t o t heir lovely school

I guess I do know one t hing about who I am .

I am a writ er.

ANALYSI S
“ Pieces of Me” is an adm issions essay wit h at t it ude – a personal st at em ent t hat
t akes a risk.
Like m any college applicant s, Pullm an is int erest ed in writ ing. Her essay st ands
apart form t he pack because she doesn’t sim ply t ell t he adm issions officer she likes
t o writ e. I nst ead, when used excerpt s from her j ournal t o show t he adm issions
officer how m uch she loves t o writ e, how m uch she depends on her writ ing t o help
her explain and underst and life.

But Pullm an’s decision t o include creat ive writ ing – i.e. cum m ings st yle – in her
personal st at em ent is not a decision for t he m eek of heart or t he sem i- t alent ed.
Every high school senior has heard st ories of college applicant s who, in t he quest t o
st and out am ong t he hundreds of ot her essays an adm issions officer m ust sort
t hrough, subm it t ed an original screenplay, m usical com posit ion, or videot ape of an
int erpret ive dance as t heir personal st at em ent . I n cases like Pullm an’s where real
t alent show t hrough, t hose risks m ay pay off. For ot hers, a m ore convent ional piece
wit h a st rong, clear t hesis and well- writ t en support ing argum ent s m ay be t he bet t er
road t o t ake.
Of course, no piece is perfect , including Pullm an’s. As original as m any of her j ournal
excerpt s m ay be, Pullm an prefaces m any of t hem wit h som ewhat cliché t ransit ions
which weaken t he underlying prem ise of t he piece – t hat Pullm an’s unique writ ing
help art iculat e her unique personalit y. Her creat ive writ ing is excit ing and
int erest ing; her m ore academ ic writ ing is less so.
St ill, “ Pieces of Me” is a risky endeavor t hat works. Pullm an succeeds, wit hout t he
use of a 3- D visual aid or live perform ance, in m aking her applicat ion st and out .

“W h o Am I ?”

“ Who Am I ?”
- - by Michael Cho
I wish I could writ e about t he Michael Cho who st ars in m y Walt er Mit t y- like fant asies.
I f only m y personal st at em ent could consist of m y nam e followed by such t erm s as
Olym pic at hlet e, m ast er chef, boy genius, universal best friend, and Prince
Charm ing t o every hopeful wom an. These claim s would be, at worst , out right lies, or
at best , gross hyperbole. My dream s, however, t ake t heir place alongside m y
m em ories, experiences, and genes in t he palet t e t hat const it ut es who I am .
Who am I ? I am a product of m y realit y and m y im aginat ion. I am innat ely depraved,
yet I am m ade perfect . I plan m y day wit h t he knowledge t hat “ Everyt hing is
m eaningless” ( Ecclesiast es 1: 2) , but I m ust “ m ake t he m ost of every opport unit y”
( Colossians 4: 5) . I search for sim ple answers, but find only com plex quest ions.
Once, on m y way t o a wrest ling t ournam e
whet her living in an abode which rot at ed near t he speed of light would result in m y
being younger ( ut ilizing t he Theory of Relat ivit y) and st ronger ( ut ilizing t he
propert ies of adapt at ion along wit h t he definit ion of cent ripet al and gravit at ional
force) t hat I failed t o realize t hat I had left m y wrest ling shoes in m y locker. My
m ot her says t hat m y decision t o wrest le is indicat ive of t he fact I don’t t hink.
Through working in a nursing hom e, t he m ost im port ant lesson I ’ve learned is t hat
I have m any lessons yet t o learn. Thus t he m ost valuable knowledge I possess
rem inds m e how lit t le knowledge I have.

Oft en t im es people m ake t he m ist ake of assum ing t hat m ut ually exclusive qualit ies
bear no relat ionship t o one anot her. Not so! These dichot om ies cont inuously
redefine each ot her. I n som e cases one is t ot ally dependent on t he ot her ’s exist ence.
What is fait h wit hout doubt ? Wit hout one, t he ot her does not exit . When j uxt aposed,
opposit es creat e a dialect ic ut t erly m ore profound and beaut iful t han it s part s. Walt
Whit m an em braces t his syncret ism by st at ing, “ Do I cont radict m yself ? Very well
t hen I cont radict m yself, ( I am large, I cont ain m ult it udes) .” My qualit ies, t hough
cont radict ory, define who I am .
Alt hough I can’t m ake fant ast ic claim s about m yself, I m ust st ill acknowledge and
cherish t he dream s t hat I have. Adm it t edly, it is t ragic when one is so absorbed in
fant asy t hat he loses t ouch wit h realit y. But it is equally t ragic when one is so
absorbed in realit y t hat ho loses t he abilit y t o dream . When a healt hy am ount of
realit y and fant asy are synt hesized, t he synergy is such t hat som et hing beaut iful
will undoubt edly result .

ANALYSI S
This applicant addresses t he proverbial quest ion of “ Who Am I ?” I n doing so, he
expresses, bot h im plicit ly and explicit ly, his hobbies, ext racurricular act ivit ies, and
out look on life. The writ er not only reveals his part icipat ion in wrest ling, work at a
nursing hom e, and knowledge of Quant um Mchanics, but he also exposes t he reader
t o m any aspect s of his personalit y and inner t hought s on life. His quest ioning of t he
m eaning of life and evaluat ion of his own ident it y reveal an inquisit ive side t o his
personalit y.
Overall, t his essay is well writ t en and easy t o read. The int roduct ion is st rong in t hat
t he applicant levels wit h adm ission officer by adm it t ing he does not consider him self
t o be a spect acular individual, giving t he im pression t hat what follow s is writ t en
honest ly. Anot her st orng point of t he essay is t hat it reveals m any of t he act ivit ies in
which t he writ er is involved. This serves t o give t he adm issions officer a m ore
personalized pict ure of t he
very well used and dem onst rat e t he st rong int ellect of t he writ er.
While t he essay does provide som e insight int o t he philosophical t hought s of t he
applicant , in m any ways it is t oo t heoret ical. The writ er could im prove t he essay by
specifically list ing t he dream s or goals he cherishes or perhaps by writ ing in m ore
det ail about one of t he m any experiences he m ent ions in t he st at em ent . The flow of
t he essay is also hindered in a num ber of ways. First , t he word choice seem s slight ly
unnat ural – alm ost as if t he applicant relied on a t hesaurus when writ ing t he essay;
as a result , t he t one seem s t o be a bit cont rived. Second, while t he overall t hem e of
self- ident ificat ion is m aint ained t hroughout t he essay, t he individual paragraphs
j um p from one t opic t o t he next in a disj oint ed fashion. For exam ple, it is int erest ing
t o know t hat t he applicant worked at a nursing hom e, but m ent ioning such does not
seem t o fit wit h t he overall progression of t he essay. I t is im port ant t hat t he personal
st at em ent convey t o t he adm issions officer a sense of who you are and what you are
like in person, but it is not necessary t o cram every ext racurricular act ivit y or
accom plishm ent int o t he essay; t here are ot her sect ions of t he applicat ion for list ing
such t hings.
An I n com ple t e St or y

An I ncom plet e St ory

During t he Middle Ages, a rit ual exist ed which dict at ed how an individual int roduced
him self or herself. This int roduct ory process was t hreefold: first , it dem anded t hat
t he individual’s religion be nam ed; next , t he individual’s t own or com m unit y was
st at ed; and finally, t he fam ily nam e was said. Even t oday, t his m et hod of
int roduct ion can be effect ive in conveying t he charact er or ident it y of an individual.
I f I were t op int roduce m yself, I would sim ply st at e t hat I am a scholar ( learning is
m y religion) ; I am a cont ribut or t o t he great er well- being of m y com m unit y; and m y
fam ily will be det erm ined by m y fut ure plans and goals ( since fam ily includes, but is
not lim it ed, t o blood relat ions) .
While m y gender is ext rem ely im port ant t o m e, I first ident ify m yself as a scholar
because int ellect does not have a sex. Knowledge t ranscends gender. Therefore, I
am a t hinker, a learner, and a scholar. To m e, t he process of learning is religious.
Words are m y “ bible,” t eachers are m y “ priest s.” I respect and revere words like
ot hers respect , revere, and fear t he idea of God. I underst and t hat words are alive
and I m ust wrest le t hem down and t am e t hem in order for t hem t o becom e m y own.
Hence, I m ake it a habit t o collect words. Then, like bangles and cryst als t hat
possess psychedelic and prism at ic qualit ies, I hang t he words in m y m ind for
illum inat ion. The m eaning of m y precious words are revealed t o m e by t eachers = =
not j ust t hose who have a “ t eaching cert
who ignit e m y senses, who alt er m y percept ion of t he world; t oget her, as Walt
Whit m an says, we “ roam in t hought over t he universe,” seeking t o enlight en
ourselves and one anot her.
The college experience, as I perceive it , in addit ion t o it being t he next st op on m y
j ourney for self- enlight enm ent , is t o be t he crescendo of m y int ellect ual revolut ion
cat alyzed by professors who can awaken m y m ind, ignit e m y senses, and alt er m y
percept ion of t he world. I hope t hat m y percept ion of t he world will be slight ly
t urned on it s head and t hat I will be m ade t o defend m y beliefs and experience t he
t rue m eaning of int ellect ual discovery. Thus, m y only real expect at ion for college is
t o be challenged. I look upon t he next four years of m y life as an opport unit y; I can
eit her seize t he chance and significant ly bet t er m yself t hrough t he accum ulat ion of
new knowledge or I can m erely go t hrough t he paces, achieve good grades, but
never really feel t he excit em ent of t he words t hem selves. Obviously, I am looking
for t he form er scenario = = a place where m ent al gym nast ics are applauded.
But m ent al cont ort ions should not be done j ust for t he sake of doing t hem ; rat her,
t hey should be underst ood and applied t o everyday life. For t his reason, m y quest
for self- enlight enm ent is not lim it ed t o t he sphere of academ ics because t he college
experience it self is not lim it ed t o classes – it is t he form at ion of t he com plet e
individual, which m eans developing bot h social and academ ic personalit ies. I have
confidence t hat t he people I will m eet in college will show m e and share wit h m e
t heir enorm ous zest for life. This ext ended fam ily will help m e t o forge m y ident it y
as a scholar, as a cont ribut or t o m y com m unit y, and as a m em ber of a fam ily.
But neit her m y fam ily nor m y ext ended fam ily nor m y t eachers could com prise m y
ent ire ident it y. Rat her, I will rem ain like t he first page of a book wit h t he first line
incom plet e – a st ory wait ing t o be t old.

ANALYSI S
Levey’s essay is very m uch a self- explorat ion of being an int ellect . Her idea of
em phasizing her love of learning is solid and she clearly has a sophist icat ed grasp of
prose, but t he overall package m ight have done bet t er wit h a lit t le m ore underst at ed
elegance. The int roduct ion is int riguing wit h t he use of an unobvious hist orical fact
about cust om s in t he Middle Ages. She successfully int roduces herself and her
percept ion of her role in t he world. The first t wo paragraphs are an easy read,
except t hat t he use of t oo m any polysyllabic adj ect ives can becom e a lit t le bit
dist ract ing. Personal essays t hat are “ show m e rat her t han t ell m e” t end t o be m ore
convincing. What m ent al gym nast ics has she experienced before? W here has
she really pushed for self- growt h? The sect ion which describes college as “ t he next
st op on m y j ourney for self- enlight enm ent ” and “ t he crescendo of m y int ellect ual
revolut ion cat alyzed by professors who can awaken m y m ind, ignit e m y senses, and
alt er m y percept ion of t he world” is a lit t le bit over t he t op. You don’t have t o t ell t he
reader t hat college is t he next st ep in int ellect ual growt h, t he reader should be able
t o sense it from t he essay it self.

“M yu n g!”

“ Myung!”
- - Myung! H. Joh

The hot- blooded Spaniard seem s t o be revealed in t he passion and urgency of his
doubled exclam at ion point s…
- - - - - Pico Lyer, “ I n Praise of t he Hum ble Com m a”

Are you a m em ber of t he Kung! Tribe? is a com m only asked quest ion when people
see m y signat ure, which has an exclam at ion point at t he end of it . No, I am not a
m em ber of any t ribe, nor am I put t ing t he m ark at t he end of m y nam e t o be “ cut e.”
I t is not sim ply a hiccup in m y handwrit ing; it is t here for a specific reason. But
before I elaborat e on why I believe t he exclam at ion point is such an appropriat e
punct uat ion m ark for m e, let us explore t he ot her m arks I m ight have used:
Myung?
Alt hough t he quest ion m ark bears a cert ain swan- like elegance in it s uncert ain
curves, it sim ply does not do t he j ob. While it is t rue t hat I am const ant ly discovering
new t hings about m yself and changing all t he t im e, I know what I st and for, what m y
weaknesses and st rengt hs are, and what I would like t o get out of life. I know t hat
I want t o m aj or in English, at t end graduat e school, learn as m uch as possible from
t hose who are wiser t han I , and event ually t each at a universit y. I am headed for a
career in English; t here is no quest ion about it .
Myung,
I adm it t hat I do pause and cont em plat e decisions before leaping in and rushing
ahead of m yself – spont aneit y is perhaps not m y st rong point . But t he com m a, wit h
it s dragging, drooping t ail, does not adequat ely describe who I am , because I know
t hat life will not pause for m e; nor do I want it t o. Mid t he chaos of a hect ic schedule
t hat balances clubs, act ivit ies, and AP courses, I always feel t he rush of life, and I
love it . I do not linger over failures; due t o m y passionat e nat ure, I am crushed by
disappoint m ent s, but I m ove on. No prolonged hesit at ions or pauses.
Myung:
I const ant ly look forward t o t he surprises t hat college and m y fut ure life prom ise m e;
graduat ion seem s like t he beginning of a whole new chapt er. But t he colon, t hough
I will not deny it s t wo neat specks a cert ain professional air, does not do m y j ust ice.
I know how t o live for t oday, have fun, and enj oy life inst ead of j ust wait ing for what
t he next chapt er m ay bring. The fut ure is unpredict able. My present life is not sim ply
t he precursor t o what m ay follow.
Myung.
Perhaps t his is t he m ost inaccurat e punct uat ion m ark t o describe who I am . The
drab, single eye of t he period looks upon an
aspect s of m y educat ion st ill ahead of m e, m y life is far from any kind of t erm inat ion.
Myung!
However, t he exclam at ion point , wit h it s j aunt y vert ical slash underscored by a
perky lit t le dot , is a happy sort of m ark, cheerful, full of spice. I t s passions m at ch
m ine: whet her it be t he passion t hat keeps m e furiously at t acking m y keyboard at
4: 50 in t he m orning so t hat I m ight perfect ly capt ure a fant ast ic idea for a st ory, or
t he passion t hat lends it self t o a nearly crazed st at e of m ind in which I t ackle pet
proj ect s of m ine, such as clubs or act ivit ies I am especially devot ed t o.
One of m y great est passions, m y passion for learning, engenders in m e a passion for
t eaching t hat I plan t o sat isfy fully as a professor. I want m y st udent s t o feel t he
aching beaut y of John Keat s’s words, his drawn- out good- bye t o life. I want t hem t o
feel t he world of difference in Robert Frost ’s hushed “ t he woods are lovely, ark and
deep,” as opposed t o his edit or ’s irreverent “ t he woods are lovely, dark and deep.” I
want t hem t o feel t he j uiciness of Pablo Neruda’s sensually ripe poet ry when he
describes t he “ wide fruit m out h” of his lover. Wit h t he help of m y exclam at ion point ,
I want t o t each people how t o rip t he poet ry off t he page and t ake it out of t he
classroom as well. I want t hem t o feel poet ry when t hey see t he way t he sharp,
clean edges of a whit e house look against a black and rolling sky; I want t hem t o feel
it on t he roller coast er as it surges forward, up, as t he sky becom es t he eart h and
t he ground rushes up, t rem bling t o m eet t hem ; I want t hem t o feel it in t he neon
puddles t hat m elt in t he st reet s in front of sm oky night clubs at m idnight . I want
t hem t o know how t o t ast e life!
My exclam at ion point sym bolizes a general zeal for life t hat I want t o share wit h
ot hers. And I know t hat is has becom e as m uch a part of m e as it has m y signat ure.

ANALYSI S
This essay uses a sm all punct uat ion m ark t o m ake a big point , loudly and forcefully.
I t answers t he quest ion “ who are you?” in a not ably creat ive, excit ing, and
elucidat ing m anner. Through an unconvent ional present at ion, t he aut hor m anages
t o capt ivat e t he reader ’s at t ent ion, while inform ing him / her of subst ant ially
revealing personal qualit ies. The st rong, energized voice t hat is used delivers bot h
a general, palpable sense of ent husiasm and a glim pse int o specific ways t hat it
m anifest s in t he aut hor ’s life.
The t echnical writ ing in t his essay dem onst rat es skill. Each paragraph expresses
one idea wit h cogency and brevit y. A personified punct uat ion m ark is present ed
t hrough an int erest ing im age and is t hen relat ed t o in light of t he aut hor ’s charact er.
The final lines of each paragraph t hen cleverly bring a close t o t he ideas present ed
t herein.
Though t he addit ion of an exclam at ion m ark could be seen as gim m icky, t he aut hor
dem onst rat es t hat she has t he energy and t hought fulness needed t o back up her
unusual choice, in real life and on t he page. I t is obviously not a decision she has
m ade light ly, not j ust t o m ake her applicat ion st and out , alt hough one get s t he
im pression t hat Myung! would st and out in any crowd, regardless of her nam e. it ’s
a risky m ove, but for her, it works.

“M yse lf”

“ Myself”
- - by Jam ie Sm it h
A t eenage girl, JAMI E, walks out on st age alone from st age left . She has brown hair
t hat falls t o her shoulders and deep blue eyes. She is wearing a whit e blouse and
blue j eans and in her right hand is a pair of binoculars. The st age is dark except for
a single spot light follow ing JAMI E across t he st age. When she reaches t he cent er,
she sit s down on t he edge of t he st age, her feet dangling over, and raises t he
binoculars t o her eyes. She proceeds t o st are at t he audience t hrough t hem for a
few seconds, t hen slowly m oves t hem away from her face.
JAMI E: Wit h t hese binoculars I can see each one of you on an ext rem ely personal
level. ( She brings t he binoculars t o her eyes t hen down again.) Do any of you
audience m em bers by any chance have your own pair handy? ( scanning t he
audience) I was afraid of t his. Well, here, why don’t you t ake m ine for a while? ( She
j um ps off t he front of t he st age, hands a front row audience m em ber her pair of
binoculars, t hen resum es her previous posit ion.) Now look t hrough t hose and t ell
m e what you see. Be honest now, I could use a good session of const ruct ive crit icism .
Wait , m aybe if I st and up you could get a bet t er look at m y t rue self. ( She st ands and
gracefully t urns around.) Make sure you get every angle now. Okay, now t ell m e
everyt hing you know about m e… not m uch t o t ell, is t here. I m ean, you really don’t
know what kind of person is st anding up on t his st age in front of you blabbering on
about binoculars and const ruct ive crit icism . Well, I guess I have m y work cut out for
m e t oday; I m ust describe who I am . Fort unat ely, I did com e prepared. I have
provided m yself wit h a prop – and t he influence of a very special person – t o assist
m e t hroughout one of t he m ost difficult perform ances of m y life, an int erpret at ion of
a piece I call “ Myself.” ( she st eps off t he st age and ret urns t o t he audience m em ber
in t he front row.) Do you m ind if I t ake t hese back now? ( She ret urns t o t he st age.)
t he one prop is, you guessed it , a pair of binoculars. Not j ust any binoculars, t hey
are one of t he few rem inders I have of m y great- grandm ot her, Gran. No, she wasn’t
an infam ous spy at large during World War 2 nor was she an avid birdwat cher. I n
1986, when I was six and she was ninet y- four we bot h wat ched Halley’s Com et
m ake it s celest ial appearance t hrough t hese binoculars. I rem em ber she said t hat
she and I were t ruly blessed because we bot h were able t o see Halley’s Com et t wice
in our lives. She t old m e about seeing it out in her backyard in 1909, when she was
t he sam e age I am now. t here we were t oget her, sevent y- seven years lat er,
wat ching t he sam e com et shoot across t he sam e sky. I t hink of all t he t hings t hat
have happened during t hose sevent y- seven years, t he t rium phs and set backs Gran
achieved and endured, and it has given m e st rengt h t o deal wit h t he challenges in
m y own life. I im agine how m uch life had changed since 1909 and wonder how m y
life will change by t he t im e I see Halley’s Com et again. What will I becom e? I will not ,
like Gran, be a part of t he Oklahom a land run or wit ness t he birt h of t he aut om obile.
I will probably not be quarant ined for t uberculosis or list en t o t he progression of t wo
world wars over t he radio. But I know I will do and be som et hing. And t he
det erm inat ion and success of m y great- grandm ot her will help m e reach t his
som et hing. She is m ore t han a m em ory or a st ory, she has becom e a part of m e: m y
fam ily, m y hist ory, m y source of knowledge and m y source of pride. Her st ruggles
and achievem ent s are reflect ed in m ine. She is wit h m e when I rise and fall and
always t here t o m ake sure m y feet are st ill on t he ground. She is wit h m e backst age
and wit h m e in t he spot light . She is a wom an. She is m y great- grandm ot her. And
t hat ’s t ruly what she is – great , grand, everyt hing. Gran. I t ’s am azing how a sim ple
nam e can inspire so m uch.

She sit s down, ret urning t o her init ial posit ion wit h her feet dangling over t he edge.
She brings t he binoculars t o her eyes and looks t hrough t hem . But inst ead of looking
at t he audience, she is at t em pt ing t o look beyond t hem , alm ost as if t here is som e
invisible sky behind t he rows of seat s. She slowly m oves t he binoculars away from
her face, but her eyes are st ill fixed on som e obj ect off in t he dist ance.
JAMI E: Only sixt y-xi years t o go. I ’ve got t o m ake t hem count .

ANALYSI S
Writ t en in t he form at of a play script m onologue, bot h in st yle and overall st ruct ure,
t his essay addresses t he concept t hat it is difficult t o evaluat e a person from st rict ly
superficial appearances. I n order t o t ruly know som eone, no m at t er how closely you
st udy t heir out er appearance, it is what ’ inside t hat count s. Em ot ions, t hought s,
dream s, and personal goals are t he m ost im port ant and t elling aspect s of one’s
ident it y. The writ er does not j ust t heorize about such ideas, but m akes a logical
progression by giving a concret e, vivid exam ple t o back up her t hesis. Wit hout
having t o explicit ly list int erest s or personalit y t rait s, t hey st yle of t he essay reveals
a good deal about t he applicant : she probably enj oys act ing or playwrit ing and is
highly creat ive and opt im ist ic about life.
One of t he st rongest aspect s of t he essay is t he fact t hat it is writ t en as a m onologue.
The creat ive form at is going t o st and out from t he t housands of ot her applicat ion
essays t hat adm issions officers m ust read. The use of binoculars as a linking device
bet ween t he present and t he past is highly effect ive – it produces an overall
coherence wit hin t he essay. The applicant ’s use of a very specific m om ent t o fram e
her love for “ Gran” increases t he nat uralness of t he passage. I n m any cases, essays
writ t en about fam ily m em ber can sound cont rived. The use of a specific event adds
t o t he realism of t he applicant ’s em ot ion. The creat ive use of st age direct ions
addresses t he adage “ show – not t ell” head- on. I t is an effect ive way of creat ing a
m ent al pict ure of t he applicant in a reader ’s m ind. The essay also ends st rongly as
t he last line clearly ident ifies t hat t he applicant is am bit ious, hard- working, and
eager t o m ake som et hing out of her life.
The m onologue of t he essay is effect ive, but it is im port ant t o point out t hat such
at t em pt s t o be overly creat ive can backfire. This applicant ’s fam iliarit y wit h t his
st yle of writ ing is apparent . I f you at t em pt t o writ e your essay in a nonst andard
m anner, m ake sur.e you have a sim ilar com fort level wit h t he t echniques you are
using.

哈佛 5 0 篇e ssa y- - 2 。观点

哈佛 50 篇essay
第二部分 观点point of view

“I n t r odu cin g Cla r k Ke n t a n d W illy W on k a ”

“ I nt roducing Clark Kent and Willy Wonka”

By Daniel G. Habib

My childhood passions oscillat ed bet ween t wo poles: St . Cat herine’s Park and t he
67t h St reet branch of t he New York Public Library. Locat ed across Sixt y- Sevent h
St reet from one anot her, t he t wo cryst allized t he occupat ions of m y yout h. On a
t ypical day, I m oved bet ween a close- knit group of friends at t he park t o largely
solit ary st ays at t he library. My recreat ional pursuit s were com m unal; m y
int ellect ual pursuit s were individual. The gulf was pronounced: friends rarely j oined
m y m ot her and m e as we m eandered am ong t he st acks, and t he books I obt ained
from t he library never accom panied m e t o t he basket ball court s or t he j ungle gym .
Generally, I slipped away from t he park during a lull in t he act ion and ret urned as
st ealt hily as I had gone, foist ing Roald Dahl paperbacks on m y m ot her and
scram bling t o rej oin m y friends in arguing t he relat ive m erit s of t he Hulk and
Superm an. I never t hought t o int egrat e t hese passions; t hey rem ained firm ly
segregat ed. That Clark Kent and Willy Wonka should never cross pat hs was a given;
t he giant s exist ed in separat e realm s of m y life.
More t han anyt hing else, m y Regis career has reversed t hat assum pt ion. I now
recognize t hat m y int ellect ual growt h and m y peer com m unit y are inext ricably
linked. I have com e t o regard t hose who surround m e not sim ply as a net work of
friends, but m ost vit ally as com ponent s in t he ongoing work of educat ion. I
underst and t hat an individualized process of learning is int ellect ually im poverished.
The m ost st art ling of m y educat ional epiphanies have occurred in t he cont ext of
fellow st udent s. Case in point : m y acquaint ance wit h Albert Cam us’ absurdist
m anifest o, The St ranger. My first reading of t he classic, in sixt h grade, cam e in an
at om ized int ellect ual clim at e. As a result , m y underst anding of Cam us’ philosophy
was t enuous, so m uch so t hat , feeling incapable of defending or even art iculat ing
m y int erpret at ion of t he work, I eschewed any discussion and shunned t he chance
for error. Sat isfied in m y ignorance, I disdainfully explained t o m y inquiring parent s,
“ Oh, it wasn’t m uch of a m urder m yst ery. You know who kills t he Arab all along. And
t hat whole m ot her angle j ust doesn’t fit .” My second encount er wit h Cam us cam e in
m y j unior French elect ive, t his t im e in t he com pany of an insight ful oct et of
Francophones. As we grappled wit h Cam us’ vision of t he absurd world and
Meursault ’s st at em ent of revolt , an underst anding em erged from t he sundrenched
Algerian beach. Each m em ber of t he class offered his insight s for considerat ion,
risking t he scrut iny of t he group but confident in it s int ellect ual generosit y. The
rigorous st andards of t he class, and our com m on desire for underst anding, led
event ually t o firm er com prehension. My balanced int erpret at ion of Cam us derived
only from t he int ensit y of discussion, t he cont ribut ions of m y peers, and our m ut ual
willingness t o share our insight s.
Through m y part icipat ion in Regis’ Speech and Debat e Societ y, I have cont inued in
m y quest for t he acquisit ion of knowledge t hrough t he group. Ext em poraneous
Speaking requires t hat a speaker provide a t horough analysis of a current
event s/ policy proposit ion, aft er considering and synt hesizing num erous sources.
Speakers engage each ot her on subj ect s ranging from dem ocrat ic and free- m arket
reform s in Boris Yelt sin’s Russia t o t he prospect s for a Medicare overhaul in t he
Republican Congress. Pract ices involve evaluat ion by fellow t eam m em bers and
success depends int im at ely on an accurat e com m on underst anding of t he issues
Lincoln- Douglas Debat e, sim ilarly, ent ails t eam form ulat ions of argum ent based on
philosophical principles. We prepare as a t eam , and I have been privileged t o benefit
from t eam m at es’ sophist icat ed applicat ions and elucidat ions of issues as diverse as
social cont ract t heory and int ernat ional et hical m andat es.
The group charact er of t he t eam ’s int ellect ual st rivings was brought t o bear m ost
st rongly at t he Harvard I nvit at ional, in t he wint er of m y j unior year. Debat ers were
asked t o evaluat e t he proposit ion t hat “Am erican societ y is well- served by t he
m aint enance of a separat e cult ure for t he deaf.” The evening before t he t ournam ent
began, sixt een debat ers m assed in one hot el room at t he Howard Johnson’s on
Mem orial Drive, and, fueled by peanut but t er and m arshm allow sandwiches and
gallons of coffee, we wrangled over t he specifics of t he unique resolut ion. The
assim ilat ionist cam p suggest ed t hat t he achievem ent of group dignit y and a privat e
ident it y for t he deaf had t o occur against t he backdrop of a larger public ident it y. The
separat ism inherent in ASL or deaf schools fat ally divorced t he group from
m eaningful part icipat ion in t he Am erican dem ocracy. True cult ural uniqueness
required a com m on fram e of reference. Conversely, t he deaf separat ist part isans
m aint ained t hat t his decidedly m arginalized m inorit y deserved a dist inct ness of
cult ure com m ensurat e wit h t he dist inct ness of it s experience. Separat ion allowed
dignit y and em powerm ent .
As t he hours wore on and t he dialect ic raged out of cont rol, posit ions becam e m ore
ent renched, but paradoxically a t ruer com prehension arose. The eloquence and
persuasiveness wit h which each side advanced it s int erpret at ion furt hered t he
exchange. We acknowledged and respect ed t he logic of t hose wit h whom we
disagreed, and we reinforced our own convict ions by art iculat ing and defending
t hem . At 1: 30, bedraggled, exhaust ed, and happily not unanim ous in perspect ive,
we regret fully dispersed t o our room s, t o sleep off t he effect s of t he session.
I f I began m y educat ional career as an int ellect ual m onopolist , I have evolved int o
a collect ivist . On our last day of sum m er vacat ion, a dozen Regis st udent s spent an
aft ernoon in t he Yankee St adium bleachers, arguing t he possible out com es of t he
Am erican League pennant race, t hen ret urned t o Manhat t an’s Cent ral Park t o at t end
t he New York Shakespeare Fest ival’s arrest ing and hyper- cont roversial product ion
of Troilus and Cressida. As we exit ed t he Delacort e Theat er, we reflect ed on t he
m odernizat ion of Shakespeare’s m essage. Som e praised it s t ransm ission of
bleakness and pessim ism ; ot hers j oined crit ics in at t acking it s excesses and it s
art ist ic license in m anipulat ing t he original. Our consensus on t he Bronx Bom bers’
chances in Oct ober was firm er t han t hat on t he Greek conquest of Troy, but t he
essent ial t rut h rem ains. Regis has wonderfully fused t he com m unal and t he
int ellect ual phases of m y life.
ANALYSI S
Writ ing about an out st anding learning experience is a fairly com m on approach t o
t he personal st at em ent . But while m any applicant s m ay choose a defining and
dist inct m om ent – winning t he st at e speech t ournam ent or set t ing t he school record
for t he highest GPA –as an experience wort h ret elling, Habib inst ead chooses t o
chronicle t he gradual process of int ellect ual m at urat ion. By choosing t his t opic,
Habib has t he opport unit y t o reflect on his educat ion and recount several form at ive
experiences, not j ust resort t o t rit e descript ions of winning or losing.
Habib’s t hesis – t hat one’s com m unal life and int ellect ual pursuit s are only enhanced
when fused t oget her – is a som ewhat abst ract and difficult argum ent t o m ake, at
least for a high school senior. The fact t hat Habib m akes t he argum ent successfully,
t hrough t he use of det ails and concret e exam ples, m akes t he essay all t he m ore
im pressive.
St ill, t he essay isn’t perfect . I t ’s long. The sent ences can be com plex and a bit
convolut ed. The language used, while enough t o im press any Kaplan SAT inst ruct or,
could be t oned down t o m ake t he essay m ore readerfriendly. Habib could have
easily short ened his st at em ent by using fewer exam ples of real- life learning
experiences. Or t he experiences he shares could have been short ened: t he
adm issions com m it t ee m ay not need t o know t he exact argum ent s and
count er- argum ent Habib’s Lincoln- Douglas debat e t eam draft ed for t he Harvard
t ournam ent .
Overall, Habib’s essay helps dist inguish him from ot her applicant s by t aking an
int erest ing approach t o a com m on t hem e and using concret e support ing argum ent s.
All in all, it is a well- writ t en essay enhanced by personal insight s, exam ples, and t he
all- im port ant det ails.

“On D iplom a cy in Br igh t N ik e Ru n n in g Tigh t s”

“ On Diplom acy in Bright Nike Running Tight s”

By Christ opher M. Kirchhoff
Beepbeep.
Beepbeep.
Beepbeep. Wit h a series of subt le but relent less beeps, m y fait hful Tim ex I ronm an
wat ch alarm signaled t he st art of anot her day, gent ly ending t he pleasant slum ber I
so oft en fail t o enj oy. Wit h t he t ouch of a but t on I silenced t he alarm , falling back on
m y bed t o est ablish a firm er grasp of where I was and why on eart h I had set m y
alarm for 5: 45 A.M. Slowly t he out line of m y soundly sleeping room m at e cam e int o
focus. Beyond his bed was t he window. Across t he Neva River t he view of t he
Herm it age and Wint er Palace, illum inat ed bright ly wit h spot light s, faded in and out
of t he falling snow. I was definit ely st ill in St . Pet ersburg, and no, t his wasn’t a
dream . “ Oh yes, running,” I rem em bered. “ Must go running.”
Tem perat ure??? I dialed t he front desk. “ Kakoy t em pat ura pozholst a.” Not fooled by
m y Berlit z Russian, t he voice responded, “ Negat ive 7 degrees” in crisp English. I
reached for m y running t ight s, glad t hat m eant negat ive seven degrees Celsius. I
t ook anot her look int o t he darkness out side. Negat ive seven degrees Fahrenheit and
I would not be running. The hot el lobby was em pt y except for t he guard and t he
wom an at t he desk. As I st epped out side, I pressed t he st art but t on on m y Tim ex
I ronm an and began j ogging.
I t was a prist ine m orning. The Novem ber wind prom pt ly rem inded m e j ust what
wint er m eant at 60 degrees nort h lat it ude. Wit h t he sky await ing t he break of dawn,
I st art ed m aking m y way t hrough t he newly fallen snow. Soon t he sound of m y
labored breat hing cam e t hrough t he rhyt hm ic swooshing of running shoes dancing
t hrough t he snow. As clouds of breat h collect ed in front of m e, I passed slowly
t hrough t hem , m arking m y forward progress wit h each exhale. Around t he corner I
found a freshly shoveled sidewalk. Follow ing t he invit ing pat h, I soon cam e upon t he
shoveler, an old m an sport ing t he classic Russian wint er out fit : fur cap, long coat ,
and m it t ens. Tim e had left it s m ark on his wrinkled face and worn clot hing. Despit e
t he falling snow, which accum ulat ed at a far great er pace t han t he m an could keep
up wit h, he cont inued t o shovel relent lessly, barely glancing up as I j ogged by him .
I respect his perseverance. He was working fiercely in t he Russian spirit . And as t he
war m edals proudly displayed on his coat indicat e, he had been doing so for a while.
Perhaps t his m an was one of t he few t hat survived t he Nazi siege on Leningrad, a
living rem inder of why t he Unit ed St at es m ust rem ain deeply involved in world
polit ics.
As I t urned and ran across t he bridge leading downt own, t he bat t leship Pot em kin
cam e int o view. The Pot em kin began t he second Russian Revolut ion by t raining it s
guns on t he Wint er Palace. St ill afloat as a working m useum , young sailors in full
m ilit ary dress cleared it s decks of snow. While I ran past t he ship, a sailor st opped
t o wave. As his inquisit ive eyes st ared int o m ine, we bot h recognized each ot her ’s
young age. I waved back, shout ing, “ Doebroyah oot ra,” wishing him a good m orning.
A few seconds lat er I glanced back, not icing t hat t he sam e sailor was st ill looking at
m e. I m ust have been quit e a sight in m y bright ly colored Nike running suit t reading
t hrough a foot of new snow. “ How ironic,” I t hought , “ here st ands a high school aged
Russian sailor shoveling snow off a ship which I st udied in hist ory class, while each
of us is equally bewildered at t he ot her ’s presence.”
By t he t im e I reached t he Herm it age t he sky was clear enough t o see m y reflect ion
in t he cold black of t he Neva River. While running past t he Wint er Palace, I
quickened m y pace, half expect ing t he Tsarina t o st ep out and st op m y progress. I
sprint ed t hrough Revolut ion Square, glancing left t o see t he spot where Tsar Nicolas
abdicat ed and right t o see t he m onum ent com m em orat ing t he defeat of Napoleon.
While t rodding t hrough hist oric St . Pet ersburg, I reflect ed on t he last discussion I
had wit h Sasha, m y Russian host st udent . Sasha, t op in his class in t he “ diplom at ic”
t rack of st udy, had t alked about his polit ical beliefs for t he first t im e. What begun as
a quest ion- and- answer session about life in t he Unit ed St at es becam e a t it anic
st ruggle bet ween polit ical ideals. Sasha’s t one and seriousness clearly indicat ed t hat
our discourse was not for pleasure. He want ed t o know about our governm ent and
what dem ocracy m eant for him and his people. Being t he first U.S. cit izen Sasha had
ever m et , I felt obligat ed t o represent m y count ry as best I could. Realizing t hat m y
response could forever shape his im pression of dem ocracy in t he U.S., t he
im port ance of m y m ission as a st udent am bassador becam e even m ore apparent .
For Russians, dem ocracy rem ains a new and unt rust ed m et hod of governm ent .
Clearly, Russia is st ill in a st at e of change, vulnerable t o t he forces of t he past and
skept ical of t he fut ure. Sasha, unable t o share m y fait h in t he dem ocrat ic polit ical
process, list ened pat ient ly t o m y explanat ions. I t ried m y best t o help Sasha
concept ualize what t he Unit ed St at es is about and j ust what it m eans t o be an
Am erican. For t he sake of bot h count ries I hope he accept ed m y prodem ocracy
argum ent . I t was conversat ions like t hese t hat brought a new sense of urgency t o
m y t im e in Russia. Through t he course of m y visit , Sasha and I cam e t o know each
ot her and each ot her ’s people. His dream of serving as a diplom at m ay very well
m at erialize. Perhaps som eday Sasha will be in a posit ion t o m ake decisions t hat
affect t he Unit ed St at es. I hope m y im pression will in som e way affect his j udgm ent
in a posit ive m anner.
Aft er j ogging up t he hot el st eps, I pressed t he st op but t on. Not bad for a m orning
run I t hought . Sixt y- four m inut es in deep snow, about seven m iles’ wort h. Press
Mode but t on. Tim e zone one: E.S.T. Colum bus, Ohio. I t was Sat urday night back
hom e Thinking of hom e, I rem em bered t he st udent in m y hom eroom who cried,
“ You m ean you’re gonna go and m eet t hose Com m ies? So you t hink you can change
t he world?” Press Mode but t on.
Tim e zone t wo: St . Pet ersburg, Russia, Novem ber 4, 1995. greet ing t he dawn of a
new day I t hought , “ Perhaps! Perhaps in som e sm all way I can change t he world,
one conversat ion at a t im e.”

ANALYSI S
The m ont h t hat Christ opher Kirchhoff spent in Russia as a “ st udent diplom at ”
undoubt edly provided him wit h m ore t han enough experiences t o include in an
adm issions applicat ion. But in his essay “ On Diplom acy in Bright Nike Running
Tight s,” Kirchhoff successfully avoids falling int o t he t rap of m any applicant s whose
st at em ent s are based on once- in- a- lifet im e opport unit ies.
Kirchhoff easily could have writ t en som et hing along t he lines of, “ My t im e in Russia
provided m e wit h a rare opport unit y t o wit ness an em erging dem ocracy grappling
wit h it s newfound freedom . Arm ed wit h a keen int erest in t he post- Com m unist
plight , I set fort h t o learn from m y Russian bret hren and t o t each t hem about t heir
Am erican peers.” These st at em ent s are not necessarily unt rue, but t hey are also not
especially original. Such an essay would hardly st and out am ong a st ack of
st at em ent s writ t en by st udent s ret elling t he glory of winning t he st at e
debat e/ foot ball/ academ ic challenge cham pionship.
I nst ead, Kirchhoff t ells t he adm issions com m it t ee about t he Russia he has com e t o
know on his early- m orning j ogs. We learn t hat he is a disciplined runner, a
percept ive observer of hum an nat ure, a willing learner of t he Russian language.
Bright Nike running t ight s, his Tim e I ronm an, and t he rhyt hm ic swooshing of his
running shoes are det ails t hat his audience will rem em ber. They also provide t he
perfect segue int o t he m ore subst ant ive issues Kirchhoff want s t o address in his
essay – t he conversat ions he has had wit h Russians his age. The reader get s t o
know Kirchhoff before we get t o know his views on such weight ier subj ect s as
diplom acy and t he Am erican role in int ernat ional relat ions.
While his supposedly verbat im t hought s aft er waving t o t he young sailor sound
st ilt ed, Kirchhoff’s underst at ed and personal approach t hroughout t he m aj orit y of
his essay m akes up for his waxing a bit t oo eloquent at t im es. I deally, it would have
been nice t o hear j ust as m uch det ail about his conversat ions wit h Sasha as we do
about St . Pet ersburg at 6 A.M. The essay loses t he det ails when it m at t ers m ost .
Also in t erm s of det ail, Kirchhoff m akes a slight error in his st at em ent t hat “ t he
Pot em kin began t he second Russian Revolut ion by t raining it s guns on t he Wint er
Palace.” I t was in fact t hat Aurora t hat fired m ost ly blank rounds on t he palace – t he
bat t leship Pot em kin was t he scene of a 1905 revolt by sailors in Odessa. These
m ist akes are rat her m inor since t he essay is not part icularly cent ered on t he ship.
However, let t his serve as a valuable lesson: it is im port ant t o ext ensively check all
fact s used in your essay.
St ill, Kirchhoff’s essay works.

“Sa la de Olivie r ”

“ Salade Olivier ”
By Svet lana Rukhelm an
For as long as I can rem em ber, t here was always t he salade Olivier. I t consist ed of
boiled pot at oes, carrot s, eggs, bologna and pickles diced int o t iny cubes and m ixed
int o a giant enam el pot t oget her wit h canned peas and m ayonnaise. I t was
considered a delicacy, and prepared only on special occasions such as birt hday and
dinner part ies. But it was also a rit ual, t he only com ponent of t he first course which
was never absent from a dinner t able, no m at t er which of our relat ives or friends
was t hrowing t he feast .
I ronically, t he salade Olivier was never m y favorit e food, t hough t he at t it ude of m y
t ast e buds t o t he dish did evolve t hrough t he years. I n m y earliest childhood, I
favored t he com pliant pot at oes, t hen began t o lean t oward t he pickles and bologna
– t hat sweet- and- sour, crunchy- and= soft com binat ion t hat never loses it s appeal –
and next passed a phase in which t he green peas appeared so abhorrent t hat I
would spend t went y m inut es picking every pea I could find out of m y serving. Only
recent ly did I resign m yself t o t he fact t hat all t he ingredient s m ust be consum ed
sim ult aneously for m axim um enj oym ent as well as for t he sake of expediency.
I t m ay seem odd, t hen, t o be writ ing in such lengt h in praise of a dish one does not
part icularly like. But culinary m em ories are det erm ined not so m uch by whet her we
found a food t ast y, but by t he event s, people, and at m ospheres of which t he food
serves as a rem inder. I n m y m ind, t he very m aking of t he salade has always been
associat ed wit h t he j oyful bust le t hat accom panied t he celebrat ions for which t he
dish was prepared: t he unfolding of t he dinner t able t o it s full lengt h, t he borrowing
of chairs from neighbors, t he st arched whit e t ableclot hs, sim m ering cryst al
wineglasses, polished silverware, whit e napkins, delicat e porcelain plat es of t hree
different sizes st acked one on t op of anot her, t he arom a float ing from t he kit chen all
t hrough t he apart m ent , m y fat her t aking m e on special shopping errands, t he
wonderful dilem m a of “ what t o wear?” and m yriad ot her pleasant deviat ions from
t he m onot ony of everyday exist ence. Though sim ple in t heory, t he preparat ion of
t he salade Olivier was a form idable undert aking which occupied half t he m orning
and all but one of t he st ove burners. At first it was m y responsibilit y t o peel t he
boiled pot at oes = = t he one t ask which did not require t he use of a knife or ot her
ut ensil, and one which I perform ed lovingly, albeit inefficient ly. As I sat at t he
kit chen t able, m y five- year- old fingers covered in several layers of pot at o skin, m y
m ot her and I would lead heart- t o- heart discussions, whose t opics I no longer
rem em ber, but of which I never t ired.
Event ually, m y m ot her int roduced m e t o t he Dicing of t he Pot at oes, and t hen t o t he
Dicing of t he Bologna, t he Dicing of t he Pickles, t he Shelling of t he Eggs and t he
St irring in of t he Mayonnaise as well. But t here was one st age of t he process I found
especially m esm erizing. I t was t he Dicing of t he Eggs, carried out one hard- boiled
egg at a t im e wit h t he help of an egg- cut t er. Not hing was m ore pleasing t o t he eye
t han t he sight of t hose seven wire- like blades, arranged like prison bars, slicing
t hrough t he sm oot h, soft ellipsoid.
Today, we st ill m ake t he salade Olivier on som e form al occasions, and, as before, I
som et im es part icipat e. And every t im e I see t he eggslicer or sm ell t he pickles, I am
rem inded of our Kiev apart m ent , of t hose m uch- ant icipat ed birt hday part ies, of t he
j oy I felt as I helped m y m ot her cook: of all t he t hings which m ade m y childhood a
happy one.

ANALYSI S
This essay seeks t o int roduce us t o t he aut hor via a descript ion of t he aut hor ’s
childhood condit ions and fam ily experiences as well as experiences from t he
aut hor ’s cult ural herit age. The salade Olivier, a delicacy in bot h Ukranian and
Russian diet s, serves as t he cent ral organizat ional m ot if for t his descript ion.
The essay’s power com es from it s am azing descript ive qualit ies. The reader is given
a vivid and det ailed pict ure of bot h t he salade and m uch of t he aut hor ’s childhood.
The essay also ent ices t he reader by deliberat ely om it t ing a descript ion of t he
salade’s cult ural origins unt il t he very end of t he t ext . This t echnique forces t he
reader t o m ove t hrough t he essay wit h puzzling quest ions about t he salade’s origins
and t he reader ’s unfam iliarit y wit h such a dish, m ot ivat ing t he reader t o rem ain
engrossed in t he work and seek out t he answers of int erest . Only in t he end are
t hings revealed, and even t hen t he reader m ay not be fully sat isfied.
Despit e t he essay’s great descript ive power, however, t he reader is given few
specific det ails about t he aut hor or t he Unkrainian cult ure t hat serves as t he
backdrop for t he aut hor ’s childhood. I ncluding m ore such det ails could dram at ically
increase t he essay’s st rengt h, especially given t he unfam iliarit y of m ost readers
wit h t he cult ure t hat st ands at t he core of t he aut hor ’s herit age.

“Th e Tu g of W a r ”

“ The Tug of War ”

I st and bet ween t wo m en. The caram el- skinned m an on m y left holds his cane as if
t he world is wait ing for his ent rance. On m y right t he t aller vanilla- skinned m an
st ands erect as if he m ust carry t he world. Each m an reaches for m y hand and
before long, a t ug- of- war ensues bet ween t hem . Each t ries t o pull m e over t he line
of agreem ent but m y body st ays in t he m iddle. During t his st ruggle I hear t heir
voices saying:
“ Cast down your bucket where you are!”
“ The problem of t he t went iet h cent ury is t he problem of t he color line!”
“ I t is at t he bot t om we m ust begin, not at t he t op!”
“ The only way we can fully be m en is wit h t he acquisit ion of social equalit y and
higher educat ion!”
Their voices blur. My t orso st ret ches wider and wider. My arm s grow in lengt h as
each m an pulls and pulls. Finally, I yell, “ I can’t t ake it anym ore!”
This is t he scene t hat plays in m y head when I cont em plat e t he philosophies of
Booker T. Washingt on and W. E. B. Du Bois, t wo foes at t em pt ing t o answer a
quest ion t hat never seem s t o go away: “ How shall t he African-Am erican race be
uplift ed?” t heir answers represent ed t he right and lift of t he social spect rum in t he
early 1900s. I at t em pt ed t o present t heir views in t he I B Ext ended Essay. While I
wrot e t he paper som et hing inside of m e felt t he need t o agree wit h and choose one
philosophy over t he ot her. I couldn’t . So t his st ruggle developed.
I n t he beginning, Washingt on looked as if he had already lost t he t ug- of- war. When
I first encount ered t he ideas of Washingt on I want ed t o grab him and ask him ,
“ What was going t hrough your head?” The form er- slave- t urned- leader- of- a- race,
Washingt on advocat ed indust rial educat ion over higher educat ion, When he said,
“ cast down your bucket ,” he m eant relinquishing social equalit y in t he nam e of
econom ic prosperit y. When I read t his, one word popped int o m y m ind, “ Uncle Tom .”
I felt t hat Washingt on had bet rayed his race when he renounced social equalit y.
Wasn’t t hat a right every m an want ed?
Aft er exam ining Washingt on, exam ining Du Bois was like j um ping int o a hot bat h
aft er sliding headfirst t hrough a field of cow dung. The int ellect ual’s ideas of higher
educat ion and social equalit y sat well wit h m y m iddle- class African-Am erican
st om ach. Du Bois represent s everyt hing I grew up adm iring. Du Bois was t he radical
who at t ended Harvard Universit y. His idea of a “ t alent ed t ent h” t o lead t he
African-Am erican race st arkly resem bles t he black m iddle class t oday. I had no
choice but t o agree wit h Du Bois.
So enam ored wit h Du Bois was I t hat I forgot about Washingt on’s pract ical ideas of
self- help and econom ic power. I wit nessed Washingt on’s ideas act ed out in everyday
life. I bought m y “ black” hair product s from and Asian owner in t he m iddle of t he
ghet t o and t he corner st ore owned by I ranians supplied m e wit h chips and candy.
These fact s m ade m e feel t hat m aybe African-Am ericans had shoved Washingt on
t oo far back int o t he closet . At t his j unct ure, Washingt on began t o give Du Bois
com pet it ion in a form erly one- sided war. Econom ic prosperit y m eans power; a race
wit h econom ic power cannot be denied social equalit y, right ?
I n order t o resolve t he dilem m a present ed by t his t ug- of- war, I looked at t he
ingredient s of m y life. Washingt on appealed t o t he part of m e t hat want ed t o forget
about social equalit y. That part of m e want ed t o live as it cam e and focus only on
self- advancem ent . Du Bois appealed t o t he part of m e t hat felt no m an was a m an
wit hout social equalit y. Eit her way, bot h appealed t o m y life as an African-Am erican.
The fact t hat t wo early t went iet h- cent ury advocat es affect ed a ‘90s
African-Am erican girl shows t hat t heir m essage was not lost in t he passage of t im e.
Neit her m an won t he t ug- of- war. Maybe t his t ug- of—war in m y head was not m eant
t o be won because t heir philosophies influenced m e equally. Washingt on provided
t he pract ical ingredient s for social advancem ent while Du Bois provided t he
int ellect ual ingredient s for such advancem ent . African-Am ericans m ust evaluat e
bot h philosophies and det erm ine how bot h views can facilit at e t he advancem ent of
t he race. I st ill st and bet ween t wo m en but now I em brace t hem equally.

ANALYSI S
The quest ion of racial ident it y can be an enorm ous one for m any people and oft en
m akes a great college essay. Writ ing an essay about t his part of your developm ent
is insight ful int o your person and your views. Adm issions officers are t rying t o get t o
a port rait of who you are and what you value, and lit t le is m ore revealing t han a
st ruggle for racial ident it y. Freelon chose t o writ e about t wo black leaders t o show
what her racial ident it y m eans t o her. Her essay also shows a keen int erest in how
hist ory can be applied t o her life – an int erest t hat would appeal t o adm issions
officers t rying t o pick t hought ful individuals.
Freelon’s essay is well writ t en and well organized. She m oves sm oot hly from her
opening t hought s int o t he body of t he essay and devot es equal t im e t o each
philosophy. She also shows clear exam ples of why she originally liked Du Bois and
why she changed her m ind about Washingt on. Her essay show im port ant elem ent s
of hum an nat ure – she adm it s t hat as a “ m iddle- class African-Am erican,” she has a
bias, and she is also wrong from t im e t o t im e.
The m ain danger in t his essay is oversim plificat ion. I t ’s difficult t o condense t he
argum ent s of t wo leaders int o a few paragraphs, and Freelon doesn’t present t he
t ot al view of t heir philosophies. She also assum es a fam iliarit y on t he part of t he
adm issions officers wit h issues of racial ident it y, which m ay or m ay not be t rue.
Overall, however, Freelon’s essay is an excellent exam ple of how a personal ident it y
st ruggle can reveal a lot about t he person inside.

“ Thought s Behind a St eam - Coat ed Door ”

By Neha Mahaj an

Till t aught by pain Men really know not what good wat er ’s wort h.
- - - - - - Lord Byron

A light gauze of st eam coat s t he t ransparent door of m y shower. The t em perat ure
knob is t urned as far as it can go, and hot drops of wat er penet rat e m y skin like t iny
bullet s. The rhyt hm of wat er dancing on t he floor creat es a blanket of soot hing
sound t hat envelops m e, m uffling t he chaot ic noises of our t hin- walled house.
Tension in m y back t hat I didn’t even know exist ed oozes out of m y pores int o
st ream s of wat er cascading in glist ening pat hs down m y body. I breat he in a m ist of
herbal scent ed sham poo and liquid Dove soap, a welcom e change from t he
sem i- arid air of Colorado. I n t he shower I am alone. No younger siblings barging
unannounced int o m y room , no friends int errupt ing m e wit h t he shrill ring of t he
t elephone, no parent s nagging m e about finishing college essays.
The ceram ic t iles t hat line m y bat hroom wall have t he perfect coefficient of
absorpt ion for repeat ed reflect ions of sound waves t o creat e t he wonderful
reverberat ion t hat m akes m y shower an acoust ic dream . The t wo by four st all is
t ransform ed int o Carnegie Hall as Neha Mahaj an, world- renowned m usician, sings
her heart out int o a sham poo bot t le m icrophone. I lose m yself in t he haunt ing
m elism a of an aalaap, t he free singing of im proved m elodies in classical I ndian
m usic. I perfect arrangem ent s for a capella singing, pract ice choreography for
Excalibur, and im provise songs t hat I will lat er st rum on m y guit ar.
Som et im es I sit in t he shower and cry, m y salt y t ears m ingling wit h t he clear drops
upon m y face unt il I can no longer t ell t hem apart . I have cried wit h t he despair of
m y friend and m ent or in t he Rape Crisis Team when she lost her sist er in a vicious
case of dom est ic abuse, cried wit h t he realizat ion of t he urgency of m y work. I have
cried wit h t he inevit able t ears aft er wat ching Dead Poet ’s Societ y for t he sevent h
t im e. I have cried wit h t he sheer frust rat ion of m y inabilit y t o convince a friend t hat
m y religious beliefs and viewpoint s are as valid as hers. Wit hin t hese glass walls I
can cry, and m y t ears are washed away by t he st inging hot wat er of t he shower.
The wat er t hat falls from m y gleam ing brass showerhead is no ordinary t ap wat er. I t
is infused wit h a m yst erious power able t o act ivat e m y neurons. My English t eachers
would be am azed if t hey ever discovered how m any of m y com posit ions originat ed
in t he bat hroom . I have rarely had a case of writ er ’s block t hat a long, hot shower
couldn’t cure. This daily rit ual is a chance for m e t o let m y m ind go free, t o cat ch and
reflect over any t hought s t hat drift t hrough m y head before t hey vanish like t he
ephem eral flashes of fireflies. I st and wit h m y eyes closed, wat er running t hrough
m y dripping hair, and t ry t o derive t he full m eaning conveyed in chapt er six of m y
favorit e book, Zen and t he Art of Mot orcycle Maint enance. I ’ll be lat hering sham poo
int o t he m ass of t angles t hat is m y hair as I work on a synaest hesia for t he next t wo
lines of a poem , or t he condit ioner will be slowly soaking t hrough when I experience
an Archim edean high, as a hard- t o- grasp physics concept present ed earlier in t he
day suddenly reveals it self t o m e. Now if only t hey had let m e t ake t hat AP Calculus
t est in t he shower…
The sparkles of falling wat er m esm erize m e int o reflect ion. Thought s t um bling in
som ersault s soft en int o a dewy m ellowness. Do t hese drops of wat er carry a seed of
consciousness wit hin t hem ? As I wat ch t he wat er winking wit h t he reflect ed light of
t he bat hroom , it appears t o glow in t he fulfillm ent of it s karm a. Then, for a split
second, all t hought s cease t o exist and t im e st ands st ill in a m om ent of perfect
silence and calm like t he m irror surface of a placid lake.
I know I have a t endency t o deplet e t he house supply of hot wat er, m uch t o t he
annoyance of t he rest of m y fam ily. I know I should heed m y m ot her ’s cont inual
warnings of t he disast rous st at e of m y skin aft er years of t hese long showers; as it
is, I go t hrough t wo bot t les of lot ion a m ont h t o cure m y post- shower “ prune”
syndrom e. But m y shower is t oo im port ant t o m e. I t is a sm all pocket of t im e away
form t he frant ic deadline and count less places t o be and t hings t o do. I t is a chance
t o reflect , and enj oy—a bit of welcom e frict ion t o slow down a hect ic day. The wat er
flows int o a swirling spiral down t he drain beneat h m y feet . I t cleanses not only m y
body, but m y m ind and soul, leaving t he bare essence t hat is m e.

Analysis
This essay illust rat es how som et hing as ordinary as a hot shower can be used
auspiciously t o reveal anyt hing of t he aut hor ’s choosing. Mahaj an could have
focused on t he academ ic subj ect s or ext racurriculars she m ent ions in her essay,
such as physics or t he Rape Crisis Team , but inst ead she chooses a daily rit ual
com m on t o us all. Though everyone can relat e t o t aking a shower, doubt less few
shower in quit e t he sam e way Mahaj an does or find it t o be such an int ellect ually and
em ot ionally st irring experience. The int im acy of t he act set s an appropriat e st age
for her personal descript ion of unraveling from life’s st resses by singing int o a
sham poo bot t le m icrophone.
There is no signal, clear focus t o t he essay, but t his accurat ely reflect s t he shower
experience it self—“ t o cat ch and relect over any t hought s t hat drift t hrough m y head
before t hey vanish.” Mahaj an t ouches on schoolwork, classical I ndian m usic and
cont em plat ion about her favorit e book, all wit h hum orous flair, and she even goes
int o em ot ionally revealing descript ions of crying in t he shower. Unfort unat ely, she
dwells on crying for an ent ire paragraph, and reader cannot help but wonder
whet her she could survive wit hout her shower t o cleanse her “ m ind and soul.”
Ult im at ely, t hat Mahaj an derives lit erally so m uch inspirat ion and relief from t he
shower seem s rat her hard t o believe. The not ion t hat she could have done bet t er on
her AP Calculus t est had she been allowed t o t ake it in t he shower is am using, but
doesn’t seem t o add m uch beyond t he suggest ion st and t hat vague “ hard- t o- grasp
physics concept ” seem s excessive. Already she dist inct ly conveys her int erest in
science t hrough her language—“ t he perfect coefficient of absorpt ion for repeat ed
reflect ions of sound waves” –and a supposedly subt le reaffirm at ion of t his int erest
seem s unnecessary.
Mahaj an’s vivid language and unusual descript ion are principle qualit ies of t his
essay. She deft ly avoids t he t em pt at ion of resort ing t o clichés, and m ost everyt hing
is ent irely unpredict able. A relat ively m inor point is t hat her econom y of language
could be im proved, as ot herwise fluid sent ences are occasionally overdone wit h an
excess of adj ect ives and adverbs. Nonet heless, Mahaj an conveys her t alent for
creat ive writ ing, and t his carries her essay for beyong t he lesser issues m ent ioned
earlier. And, of course, her dist inct ive showers t hem e helps t his exhibit ion of t alent
st and out .

哈佛 5 0 篇e ssa y- - 3 。难忘的时刻

Sensibilit y
- - by Am anda Davis
The put rid st ench of rot t en salm on waft s t hrough t he boardwalk, perm eat ing t he
Five St ar Café wit h a fishy odor. I st and, chopping red peppers for t om orrow’s soba
salad, in t he back of t he m inuscule kit chen. Adam , a pret t y boy wit h cropped hair,
st ands beside m e, relat ing t ales of snowboarding in Sweden while slicing provolone
cheese. Tourist s walk by t he café, som e peering in t hrough t he windows, ot hers
int erest ed only in fish swim m ing upst ream – clicks of cam eras capt ure t he endless
st ruggle for survival. I t is 3: 00 in t he aft ernoon, t he lunch rush has died down, t he
evening rush has not yet st art ed. I relax in t he rhyt hm ic t rance of t he downward
m ot ion of t he knife, as I wat ch t he red peppers fall int o precise slices. The door
opens. A cust om er.
Adam looks t oward m e. “ Your t urn.”
I nod, pull m yself away from t he peppers, and t urn t o t he regist er. A m an st ands,
looking at m e. His eyes, hidden under t angled gray hair, cat ch m ine, and m y eyes
drop, down t o his arm s. Spider lines of old t at t oos st and out , words and pict ures and
sym bols sket ched on t hin, alm ost em aciat ed arm s. I know I am st aring. I look up.
“ Can I help you?” I bright ly ask.
He looks at m e warily. “A cup of coffee.”
Adam hands him a cup and goes back t o slicing.
“ That will be one dollar, sir.” He fum bles in his pocket , and pulls out a wrinkled dollar
bill. He ext ends his hand, t hen – suddenly – pulls back. His face changes, and he
leans t oward m e, cast ing a fright ened glance at t he cash regist er.
“ I s t hat – is t hat - - ” he st um bles over his words. “ I s t hat alive?”
I look t o t he m achine. I t s com m on gray ext erior rest s on t he count er, t he green
num erals displaying t he am ount owed. I t hink of m y first days at t he Five St ar, when
I was sure t hat it was alive – a nefarious m achine m anipulat ing t he cost s t o cause
m y hum iliat ion. As t he days proceeded, we slowly gained a t rust for one anot her,
and it s once evil dem eanor had changed – t o t hat of an ordinary m achine. I t hink of
t he world – cont rolled by m achines, t he cars and com put ers and clocks – would t hey,
could t hey, rise up against us? The espresso m achine is behind m e, it could at t ack –
t he hot wat er spurt ing fort h, blinding m e as t he cash regist er falls and knocks m e
ont o t he floor as I – No, of course not .
Sensibilit y wins again.
“ No, sir. I t ’s j ust a m achine,” I explain. He eyes m e, unt rust ing of m y words, in need
of reassurance. “ I t t akes m oney.” I t ake his dollar, and show him how, wit h a push
of a but t on, I can place t he m oney inside. He t akes his coffee wit h bot h hands, and
sips it .
“A m achine…” he quiet ly repeat s.
The cash regist er sit s, silent on t he count er.

ANALYSI S
I n bot h subj ect m at t er and st yle, “ Sensibilit y” is a breat h of fresh air. I m agine
reading st acks of essays about m undane t opics, and t hen com ing upon one about
red peppers, provolone cheese and a cash regist er – how could it not st and out ?
Rat her t han describing a life- alt ering experience or an influent ial relat ionship, t he
writ er reveals herself and her t alent s indirect ly by bringing us int o a capt ivat ing
scene.
Wit h t he skills of a creat ive writ er, t he aut hor uses crisp det ail t o m ake t he Five St ar
Café spring t o life and t o place us in t he seaside kit chen. Even if all t he essay does
is grab our at t ent ion and force us t o rem em ber it s aut hor, t his essay is a success.
But “ Sensibilit y” has ot her st rengt hs. The dialogue wit h t he em aciat ed m an raises
provocat ive quest ions about m odern life. How do we relat e t o t he m achines around
us? How does “ sensibilit y” change in t his new environm ent ? And how do m achines
affect our relat ions wit h people of different classes and backgrounds? The essay
does not pret end t o answer t hese quest ions, but in raising t hem it reveals it s aut hor
t o possess an im pressive degree of sophist icat ion and, at bot t om , an int erest ing
m ind.
All t he sam e, “ Sensibilit y” is not wit hout it s fault s. For one, t he scene seem s so
surreal t hat we are led t o wonder whet her t his is a work of fict ion. And adm issions
essay will be st ronger t he m ore we can t rust t hat we are hearing t he aut hor ’s honest ,
personal voice; t he fict ional qualit y here j eopardizes t hat . Moreover, alt hough t he
aut hor proves t hat she is t hought ful and t alent ed and has a vivid im aginat ion, m any
quest ions are left unanswered. Does t he aut hor want t o be a writ er? How would her
creat ivit y t ranslat e int o a cont ribut ion t o t he com m unit y? We would need t o rely on
t he rest of her applicat ion t o fill in t hose gaps. St ill, on t he whole, “ Sensibilit y” is
successful bot h because of and in spit e of it s riskiness.

A M e m or a ble D a y

A Mem orable Day

- - by Ayana Elizabet h Johnson
Walking t hrough m eadow and forest and m ud, helping and being helped across
st ream s, looking at lakes, st ars and t rees, sm elling pines and horses, and generally
t raveling t hrough a half- seen world, all happened before four A.M. The t en of us
st opped near a wat erfall t o absorb t he beaut y of t he rising sun. The sky was on fire
before t he em bers died out and only t he blues and yellows rem ained. I saw t he
beam s of t he sun slide down from t he sky and int o a m eadow, and felt m y happiness
slide down m y cheeks. To t he sky I sang m y t hanks.
As our j ourney t o t he Grand Pyram id cont inued, I m et new flowers. At t he base of it s
peak, I looked up wit h excit em ent , and t hen out for st abilit y. I nt im idat ed and yet
det erm ined, I st art ed t o crawl up t he m ount ain. I found geodes, and t hat big rocks
aren’t always st able. I wasn’t alone, but I was clim bing by m yself. At t he t op, t he
four of us who had cont inued from t he base were greet ed by t he beaut y of needle
peaks and m ount ain ranges and m iles of a clear view in every direct ion, wit hout t he
bit t erly cold winds and t he fear of height s I had expect ed would be t here t oo. There
was sim ply nat ure and sunshine and friendship, and t he elat ion t hey bring.
Balloons were blown up and at t ached t o m e. People danced around m e and shout ed,
and a sm ile I couldn’t cont rol burst fort h.
On t he way down, inst ead of t ears of j oy t hat had accom panied t he sunrise, t here
were songs of j oy, and I t hought . I realized t hat t he rewards and t hrills and
m em ories are in t he j ourney and not in reaching t he dest inat ion. I had believed t his
before and even said it out loud, but t his was different . I looked at everyt hing along
t he way. I st opped and rest ed and at t em pt ed t o et ch each different view int o m y
m em ory. The hackneyed phrase of “ enj oying every st ep along t he way” was
som et hing I lived, and as a result I felt richer t han I had ever been. I prom ised
m yself t hat t his lesson I would never forget , but as I was descending from t he
highest point t o which I ’d ever j ourneyed, m y t hought s t oo ret urned t o a m ore
pragm at ic level. I rem em bered t hat each j ourney in m y life wouldn’t be as
challenging or excit ing or rewarding as t his one had been; nevert heless, it is t he
flowers and geodes and sm iles and balloons t hat m ake t he j ourney wort hwhile.
I had only been singing for m yself and for t he m ount ains, but everyone had heard
m e, and, when I reached t he bot t om , I was greet ed wit h congrat ulat ions and
laught er – aft er all, I did have balloons t ied t o m e.
And t he j ourney cont inued. The wat erfall we had only really heard before day- break
was now visible, and I was convinced t o j um p in and m ake it t angible t oo. I plunged
m y head under it s t orrent ial flow, only t o receive a headache from it s coldness as a
reward for m y boldness. I rem oved m y- t hen- num bered- self from t he wat er and was
lacing up m y boot s when it began t o hail. I had been wishing t hat snow would fall on
t his August day, but hail was close enough. The few of us who had braved t he
wat erfall t hen ran t o cat ch t he group in t he forest before t he im m inent
t hunderst orm arrived.
I saw in t he daylight what I had ( or rat her hadn’t ) seen in t he m oonlight . The
st ream s we had helped each ot her cross in t he dark were no m ore t han rivulet s
t hrough a field in t he light . The m yst erious woods were t urned serene by t he rays of
t he sun, and I t hought of t he great chasm t hat oft en exist s bet ween appearance and
realit y. The m ud puddles t hat had been obst acles were now only anot her det ail of
t he landscape, and I t hought about t hings t hat are a challenge t o m e which ot hers
find sim ple. The m eadow where I had t ripped while t rying t o st ar- gaze and walk,
becam e a place t o cloud – gaze and wonder at t he st orm , and I t hought of t he m any
ways different people can appreciat e t he sam e t hing.
The hum bling t hunder approached. I t growled. Suddenly, t he fright eningly beaut iful
com panion of t he t hunder st ruck a hill not so far ahead of us. A friend, t he only ot her
person who had seen it , and I ran scream ing and laughing int o t he t rees, but knew
we would be all right because we were t oget her.
A t rek by m oonlight , a sky on fire, leaking eyes, 13,851feet up, balloons, geodes,
songs, icy wat erfalls, hail and light ning were m y sevent eent h birt hday.

ANAYLYSI S
This easy is effect ive because it carries t he m et aphor of t he j ourney of life from t he
clim b up t he m ount ain all t he way t hrough. The essay is well organized and
st ruct ured, designed t o represent t he reconst ruct ion of t he aut hor ’s excit ing day,
st art ing wit h her init ial react ion t o t he scenery t o her elat ion of finishing at t he end.
Each paragraph, t hough varied in lengt h, t ells a part of t he j ourney and a change in
t he aut hor ’s growing perspect ive on life.
The aut hor uses a lot of act ive descript ion, which t he reader can easily relat e t o and
alm ost experience a part of her j ourney. Phrases such as “ only t o receive a
headache from it s coldness as a reward for m y boldness,” speak poignant ly because
t he reader can alm ost feel t he st ing of t he dip in t he wat erfall. The com parison
bet ween daylight and m oonlight also works well because it allows t he writ er a
chance t o dem onst rat e her abilit y t o describe cont rast .
The reader m ay be slight ly disorient ed by t he lack of cont ext for t he st ory, as we are
not t old where t he aut hor is or why she is clim bing a m ount ain. However, t hrough
t he carefully cont rolled descript ion t he aut hor reveals her reflect ive nat ure and
personal realizat ion as she ascends and descends t he m ount ain, hence, showing t he
parallel physical and em ot ional progression. Her concluding sent ence, t hough not
part icularly poignant , serves as a st rong sum m ary of a well- writ t en piece.

A night Unforgot t en
By Frederick Ant wi

An hour before t he com m encem ent of t he personalit y cont est , I deposit ed m y bag
carefully in a corner of t he changing room . From m y vant age point , I could see t he
m uscular seniors com paring t heir lovely t hree- piece suit s and m using about which
one of t hem would win t he t it le. A bony, st ut t ering j unior wit h no suit and no new
shoes, I swallowed hard and resolved t o give t he pageant m y best shot . Since t he
first round of t he program was a parade in t radit ional wear, I nervously pulled out
m y kent e, draped t he beaut ifully woven red and yellow fabric around m y t hin fram e,
pinned on m y “ cont est ant num ber five” badge and hurried t o t ake m y place in line.

Wishing hopelessly t hat m y m ot her was am ong t he spect at ors and not working in
som e hospit al in a foreign count ry, I st epped out ont o t he polished wooden st age.
I m m ediat ely, one t housand t wo hundred curious eyes bore int o m e. My cheeks
t wit ched violent ly, m y t hroat const rict ed and m y knees t urned t o j elly. I fought for
cont rol. Bending m y arm s slight ly at t he elbows, I st rut t ed across t he st age in t he
usual fashion of an Asant e m onarch and m ercifully m ade it back t o t he changing
room wit hout m ishap. The crowd erupt ed int o a frenzied cheer. As I ret urned for t he
“ casual wear ” round, som et hing m agical happened.

I t was singular em ot ion t hat no words can describe. I t began as an aching,

beaut ifully t enderness in t he pit of m y st om ach, gradually bubbling int o m y chest ,
filling m e wit h warm t h and radiance, m elt ing away all t he t ension. Slowly, it
effervesced int o m y m out h, ont o m y t ongue and int o words. As I spoke t o t he crowd
of m y past im es and passions, words of such silky t ext ure poured out from m y soul
wit h unparalleled candor and cadence. The voice t hat issued from m y lips was at
once richer, deeper, st ronger t han I had ever produced. I t was as t hough an inner
self, a core essence, had broken free and t aken cont rol. Severed from realit y, I
float ed t hrough t he rem ainder of t hat rem arkable evening.

One hour lat er, t he barit one of t he present er rang out int o t he cool night air. “ Mr. GI S
Personalit y 1993, select ed on t he basis of confidence, charism a, cult ural reflect ion,
st yle, eloquence, wit and originalit y, is Cont est ant num ber…”

“ Five! One! Five! Five!” roared t he elect rified crowd.

My heart pounded furiously. My breat hing reduced t o shallow gasps.

“ Cont est ant num ber five!” exploded t he present er in confirm at ion.

For a few sacred m om ent s, t im e st opped. My ears scream ed, and m y lower j aw,
defying t he grip of m y facial m uscles, dropped like a draw- bridge. Then I rushed
forward, bear- hugged t he present er and em braced everyone else I could lay m y
hands on! Am idst t he t um ult , t he Manager of KLM Airlines m ount ed t he st age,
present ing m e wit h a m et er- long Accra-Am st erdam - London ret urn t icket . As I st ood
brandishing m y sky- blue cardboard t icket , posing sham elessly for t he cam eras and
grinning sheepishly at t he t hrong, a pang of regret shot t hrough m e. I f only m y
m ot her could have been in t hat crowd t o wit ness and indeed be a part of t his m ost
poignant of all m em ories.

ANALYSI S
“ The unusual experience” is a st aple of college ent rance essays, but in t his case t he
experience is t ruly unusual- a personalit y cont est for m en. I t ’s also int erest ing t o see
Ant wi’s t ransform at ion from shy t o superst ar. Ant wi concent rat es on a fixed event in
t im e and uses it t o show t he spect rum of his personalit y- shy, confident , excit ed,
lonely- in an am using and ent ert aining way.

I t ’s no wonder Ant wi won t he cont est . He’s a great st oryt eller. He has an acut e sense
of det ail- “ one t housand and t wo hundred curious eyes,” “ t he fashion of an Asant e
m onarch” - and is good at height ening dram a. The essay is also upbeat and fun t o
read.

I t would have been nice t o know what Ant wi said in t he t hird paragraph inst ead of
sim ply reading about t he “ unparalleled candor and cadence” wit h which he spoke.
Also, Ant wi does not explain t he what , where, or why of t he cont est , which are all
im port ant t o know. Overall, however, his personalit y shines t hrough as st ellar.

Banana
By Nat han W. Hill
I was hungry and t he sun im paled m e on it s searing ray. I wore a wool coat , black
wit h red cot t on lining. I t had served m e well in t he m ist y foot hills of t he Him alayas,
where His Holiness, t he Dalai Lam a, gave his blessing. The coat had recent ly
ret urned from a long absence. I wore it despit e t he heat .

The hum id weat her and t he final wilt ing blossom s of lat e Sept em ber conspired t o fill
m y head wit h snot . The m ight y ham m er, Mj ollnir, pounded his lam ent bet ween m y
ears.

I walked down t o The Barn, our cafet eria, but it wouldn’t open again unt il t hree.
Then, I rem em bered Clint , m y j unior year English t eacher, and walked back t o t he
Upper School. Clint always kept a few overripe bananas in t he fruit bowl wit h t he
past due vocab t est s. Laura, who shared t he office, com plained of t he fet id sm ell of
rot t en fruit and t hat Clint m ade grunt ing noises as he worked hunched in his bow t ie,
over a m ound of disheveled papers. On occasion, he st ret ched his arm t owards
Laura’s desk and asked her, wit h a bruised banana dangling from his hand, “ Would
you like a banana, Laura?” Wit h a crinkled nose, Laura always polit ely replied, “ No,
t hank you, Clint ,” and wat ched in disgust as he wolfed it down.

The heavy wooden door t o Clint ’s office st ood propped open because of t he heat .
I nside, a sm all elect ric fan sat on t op of t he com put er, it m ade an obnoxious noise
bet ween t he sound of buzzing bees and chom ping t eet h. A t iny st rip of paper dart ed
before t he spinning blades. Clint looked up from his work and asked wit h nasal
condescension, “ Can I help you, Nat e?”

I responded phlegm at ically, “ May I have a banana?” t he sweat dripping off t he end
of m y nose.

Wit h a m ixt ure of pit y and reproach, he raised his arm t o point at t he wooden bowl
on t op of t he gray file cabinet . I lift ed t hree vocab t est s away.

I grabbed it , soft and brown. I t s sweet arom a dist ract ed m e from t he t hrobbing of
m y head. I held t he banana in m y right hand, and m oved m y left hand t o it s st em ,
ready t o divest m y prey.

A t hin st icky liquid st art ed seeping t hrough m y hand. Not expect ing a banana t o leak
I dropped it , and heard a low t hud, followed by splat t ering.

The banana burst open; it s m ushy yellow gut s flew. A dripping peel rem ained of m y
search for happiness.
ANALYSI S
Hill has t aken t he basic narrat ive form in t his essay and t ransform ed it int o
som et hing m em orable. While Hill has alluded t o t he fact t hat he was in t he
Him alayas and t hat he was given a blessing by t he Dalai Lam a, he does not dwell on
t hose event s, however significant or unique. Rat her, he chooses t o concent rat e on
sim ple t opics: hunger and a covet ed banana.

The st rengt h of Hill’s essay rest s wit h his descript ive language. The end of t he essay
part icularly im pact s t he reader wit h vivid im agery. Few who read t his essay will
forget t he im age of an overripe banana exploding. Hill’s phrasing is at t im es
perfect : ”…ready t o divest m y prey,” is one such exam ple of convincing, powerful
language. Hill has conveyed t he exact m agnit ude of his hunger and desire for t hat
banana wit h t his phrase.

A few areas could be st rengt hened, however. Hill is som ewhat m eandering in his
opening, t ouching on t opics like t he Dalai Lam a and t he Him alayas, which t hough
int erest ing are not significant t o t he m ain t hrust of t he narrat ive. Also, Hill’s use of
dialogue and t he descript ion of Clint and Laura are a lit t le awkward. He m ight have
done bet t er t o have sim ply expanded upon t he lat t er paragraphs of his essay,
focusing m ore on t he banana and his hunger and om it t ing t his dialogue and t he
descript ion of Clint . Despit e t hese sm all com plicat ions, Hill has done t he t rick and
produced an essay t hat dem ands at t ent ion and respect .

A Lesson About Life

By Aaron Miller

Finally t he day had arrived. I was on m y way t o Aspen, Colorado. I had heard
wonderful st ories about t he Aspen Music School from friends who had at t ended in
previous years, and I was cert ain t hat t his sum m er would be an unbelievable
learning experience. I was especially excit ed t o be st udying wit h Mr. Herbert St essin,
an est eem ed professor from t he Juilliard School.

Aft er j ust a few lessons wit h Mr. St essin, I knew t hat I would not be disappoint ed. Mr.
St essin is so incredibly sharp t hat no det ail get s but him . He not ices every t urn of
each m usical phrase, cat ches wrong not es in com plex chords, and int erj ect s his wry
sense of hum or int o every lesson. As I was preparing Beet hoven’s Sonat a, Op.31,
No.3, for a m ast er class, he warned m e at t he end of a lesson, “ Don’t play t his t oo
well, Aaron, or I ’ll have not hing t o say!”
The m ast er class went quit e well considering t hat it was m y first perform ance of t he
sonat a. A few days lat er, as I walked across t he bridge over t he creek which winds
t hrough t he m usic school cam pus, I saw Mr. St essin’s wife, Nancy, who was also on
t he Aspen facult y. I waved t o her, and as I walked past she said som et hing t o m e
which I didn’t cat ch over t he roar of t he rushing wat er. I st opped for a m om ent as
she repeat ed, “ That was a very nice Beet hoven you played t he ot her day.” We had a
brief conversat ion, and I was t ouched by her t hought ful com m ent .

On July 15 I had m y last lesson wit h Mr. St essin, and walked wit h him t o t he dinning
hall. As I was sit t ing down wit h m y friends t o have lunch, som eone whispered t o m e,
“ Mrs. St essin passed out !” we nat urally assum ed t hat she had faint ed from t he
alt it ude or t he heat . However, we soon realize t hat t he sit uat ion was m ore serious,
as an am bulance was called t o t ake her t o t he nearby hospit al.

Not hing could have prepared m e for t he news t hat t wo dist raught friends brought
lat e t hat night t o m y room m at e and m e. Mrs. St essin had never regain
consciousness and had died of a rupt ured aneurysm . That night , m y room m at e and
I could not sleep; we t alked about our m em ories of Mrs. St essin for hours on end. I n
t he m orning, Dean Last er called us t oget her t o officially announce t he sad news.

Num b wit h disbelief t hat t his vibrant and dedicat ed wom an was gone, we wondered
how Mr. St essin could possibly cope wit h t his t errible t ragedy. Surely he would be
heading back t o New York as soon as arrangem ent s could be m ade.

I couldn’t have been m ore wrong. Only days aft er, Mr. St essin was back in his st udio,
t eaching!

I nit ially shocked by Mr. St essin’s decision t o st ay, I soon began t o underst and his
t hinking. He and his wife had been t eaching at Aspen for m any years and had built
a st rong sense of com m unit y wit h t he facult y and st udent s. Furt herm ore, I realized
t hat he found com fort t hrough his love of m usic and his com m it m ent t o his st udent s.
Leaving Aspen would have m eant leaving behind his fondest m em ories of Nancy.

Aft er st udying a Mozart piano concert o wit h Mr. St essin all sum m er, I was fort unat e
t o have t he opport unit y t o dedicat e m y perform ance t o t he m em ory of Mrs. St essin.
At t he end of t he concert , m y last evening in Aspen, I was greet ed by friends and
facult y m em bers backst age. When I saw Mr. St essin approaching m e, he was
beam ing. “ That was a wonderful perform ance!” he said, and gave m e a hug. He
cont inued, “And t hank you for t he dedicat ion. I ’ll m iss you.” We hugged again.

Last e sum m er did indeed t urn out t o be an unbelievable learning experience.

Alt hough Mr. St essin t aught m e a great deal about m usic and t he piano, in t he end
his great est lesson about life.
ANALYSI S

Miller builds a st rong essay around t wo big st ories: a phenom enal accom plishm ent
and a m oving deat h.

He has a good ear for coupling dialogue and narrat ion, and proj ect s him self wit h
at t ract ive m odest y. Miller offers t he reader a chance t o appreciat e an especially
wide range of qualit ies: em pat hy, virt uously, wisdom , and generosit y, alt hough he
m isses a good opport unit y t o describe how he feels about t he m usic he perform s,
and his conclusion is som ewhat t rit e.

Miller lim it s his essay t o allowing t he reader t o appreciat e one’s m at urit y, but one
m ust have a gent le t ouch and healt h em ot ional dist ance.

哈佛 5 0 篇e ssa y- - 4 。经验之歌

“ Should I Jum p?”

- - Tim ot hy F. Sohn
As I st ood at op t he old railroad- bridge som e six st ories above t he wat er, m y m ind
was racing down convolut ed pat hs of t hought : Logic and reason would oblige m e t o
get off t his rust ing t rest le, run t o m y car, fast en m y seat belt , and drive hom e
carefully while obeying t he speed lim it and st opping for any anim als which m ight
wander int o m y pat h. This banal and ut t erly safe scenario did not sit well wit h m e.
I felt t he need t o do som et hing reckless and im pet uous.
“ Why am I doing t his?”
I backed up t o where I could no longer see t he huge drop which await ed m e, and
t hen, m y whole body t rem bling wit h ant icipat ion, I ran up t o t he edge, and hurled
m yself off t he bridge.
“ Do I have a deat h wish? Will m y next conversat ion be wit h Elvis or Jim m y Hoffa?”
The first j um p off t he bridge was like not hing I had ever experienced. I do not have
a fascinat ion wit h deat h, and I do not display suicidal t endencies, yet I loved
t hrowing m yself off t hat bridge, despit e t he obj ect ions of t he logical part of m y brain.
St anding up t here, I recalled from physics t hat I should be pulled t oward t he eart h
wit h an accelerat ion of 9.8m / s/ s. G- forces m eant not hing t o m e once I st epped off
t he edge of t he bridge, t hough. I felt like I was in t he air for an et ernit y ( alt hough I
was act ually only in t he air for about t hree seconds) .
This leap was at once t he m ost fright ening and m ost exhilarat ing experience of m y
life. That synergy of fear and excit em ent brought about a unique kind of euphoria.
Jum ping off and feeling t he ground fall out from underneat h m e was incredible. I
have rock- clim bed and rappelled ext ensively, but t hose experiences cannot
com pare, eit her in fear or in t hrill, t o j um ping off a bridge.
Once I conquered m y init ial fear and j um ped off, I did it again and again, always
searching for t hat t ingling sensat ion which ran t hrough m y lim bs t he first t im e I did
it , but never quit e recapt uring t he ast onishing bliss of t hat first j um p. I have j um ped
m any t im es since t hat first t im e, and all of m y j um ps have been fun, but none can
quit e m at ch t hat first leap. The t hrill of t hat first j um p, t hat elusive rapt ure, was one
of t he great est feelings of m y life.
“ Wow, I can’t believe I did t hat !”
When I j um ped off t hat bridge, I was having fun, but I was also rebelling. I was
m aking am ends for every t im e I did t he logical t hing inst ead of t he fun t hing, every
t im e I opt ed for t he least dangerous rout e t hroughout m y life. I was rising up and
doing som et hing blissfully bad, som et hing im pet uous. I was act ing wit hout t hinking
of t he ram ificat ions, and it was liberat ing. My whole life, it seem ed, had been lived
wit hin t he const rict ive boundaries of logical t hought . I overst epped t hose
boundaries when I j um ped. I freed m yself from t he bonds of logic and reason, if for
only a few seconds, and t hat was im port ant .

ANALYSI S
I n t his essay, Sohn present s a capt ivat ing narrat ive of an experience t hat has
significant ly shaped his at t it udes and out look on life. I n order for t his narrat ive form
t o be successful, t he writ er m ust use descript ive language t o set t he scene and
t ransport t he reader t o t he locat ion and even int o t he t hought process of t he
narrat or. Sohn does t his rem arkably well. The reader can envision t he railroad
t rest le upon which he st ands and even feel t he weight lessness of his free- fall t hanks
t o clear, descript ive language. Sohn uses a m at ure vocabulary and incorporat es an
int ernal dialogue t o aid t he flow of his essay successfully.
The inevit able goal of such a form at is for t he writ er t o convey som et hing about his
or her personalit y or individual qualit ies t o t he reader. I n t his case, Sohn want ed t he
reader t o know about his freewheeling side; his abilit y t o t ake risks, defy logic, and
experience danger. The conclusion is also a part icular st rengt h of t his essay. Sohn
t akes t he isolat ed event he has described so well and applies it t o a broader schem e,
showing t he reader j ust how t his event was t ruly significant t o his life
“H ist or y”

“ Hist ory”
- - by Daniel Droller
The day had been going slowly. On ot her days I had been m ore successful in m y
research on t he connect ion bet ween Swit zerland and Nazi gold. However, t oday I
hadn’t found anyt hing subst ant ial yet . I couldn’t st op m yself from looking at m y
wat ch t o see if a t im e had com e when I could t ake t he shut t le back t o Washingt on.
Josh, t he ot her int ern, had been luckier. He had found a new piece of inform at ion
dealing wit h Herm an Goering. Like ot her inform at ion we had uncovered at t he
Nat ional Archives 2, it could be ext rem ely im port ant for t he Senat e Banking
Com m it t ee, or j ust a widely know fact wit h which we would be wast ing our
supervisor ’s t im e. At any rat e, he flagged it for copying and kept on searching his
box.
I finished m y box of files, checked m y wat ch again, and decided t hat I could search
t hrough one m ore box before I had t o t ake t he hour- long bus ride back. The group
of records on t he next cart was m arked “ Top Secret I nt ercept ed Messages from t he
U.S. Milit ary At t aché in Berne, Swit zerland, t o t he War Depart m ent in Washingt on
D.C.” Following t he Archives’ procedures, I t ook one box off of t he cart , t hen one
folder out of t he box, put t he box in t he m iddle of t he t able, and st art ed looking
t hrough docum ent s in t he folder.
I n t his folder t here was one docum ent t hat caught m y eye. I t was dat ed “ 23
February 1945” and cont ained inform at ion sent t o Washingt on on bom bings of t he
previous day. Many of t he docum ent s I had gone t hrough had recount ed bat t les and
bom bings as well as t he areas affect ed by t hese. What was different about t his
docum ent was t hat t he cit ies list ed as being bom bed were Swiss cit ies. This was
very st range because Swit zerland was a neut ral count ry and it s cit ies shouldn’t have
been bom bed. I recognized t he nam es of m any of t he cit ies t hat were m ent ioned in
t he m essage, since I had gone t o visit t hese when I had visit ed m y m ot her ’s fam ily
in Swit zerland. They were list ed as follows:
B- 17’s. Fight ers at 1240 m achine0gunned m ilit ary post near Lohn nort h of
Scahffhausen. 3 wounded.
At 1235 St ein on Rhine bom bed. 7 dead. 16 wounded. 3 children m issing.

About halfway t hrough t he list I saw t he following:

At 1345 BB- 17’s bom bed Rafz. 8 dead, houses dest royed.

I was shocked. My m ot her is from Rafz, and m ost of her fam ily st ill lives t here. Even
m ore dist urbing was t he dat e of t he m essage. My m ot her would have been only four
years old.
“ Josh, you’ll never guess what I j ust found! The t own where m y Mom grew up was
bom bed. She was ... four years old! This is so weird!”
“ Yeah, t hat is pret t y weird.” Obviously, Josh wasn’t as ent husiast ic as I was.
I st ayed unt il t he last shut t le at 6: 00 t o go t hrough t he rest of t he boxes on t he cart ,
but didn’t find anyt hing nearly as good. I really couldn’t believe it , m y Mom had
never m ent ioned anyt hing about a bom bing, and I assum ed t hat she didn’t
rem em ber it . This m ade m e even m ore excit ed because I had uncovered a piece of
m y hist ory. I couldn’t wait t o call hom e t hat night .
When I got t o t he dorm , I said “ hi” t o a few of t he ballerinas and ot her int erns I had
m et t hat sum m er, and ran up t o m y room . As soon as I got in, I picked up t he phone
and called hom e.
“ Yallo?”
“ Hey, Mom s!”
“ Hi, Daniel. How was work? Did you find anyt hing for Alfonse?”
“ Not really, Mom s, but …”
“ How are t he ballerinas?”
“ Fine, but Mom s. List en. What do you rem em ber about February 22, 1945?”
There was slight hesit at ion on her end of t he line. I t was only for a few seconds, but
I t hought t hat I had st um ped her. She was only four years old at t he t im e of t he
bom bing; she shouldn’t rem em ber. But in a few seconds she spoke. The j ovial
m anner of before had been replaced by one solem nit y. She had rem em bered.
“ That was t he day t he Am ericans bom bed Rafz.”

ANALYSI S
“ Hist ory” is about t he discovery of one’s past . Droller describes his findings of a
sm all, yet significant , piece of hist ory concerning his m ot her. The reader is not given
a com plet e pict ure of t he applicant ’s background. I nst ead, t he essay succeeds in
revealing one personal and m eaningful m om ent in Droller ’s life t hat would ot herwise
not have been capt ured by t he rest of his applicat ion.
Through his essay, Droller describes how he accident ally cam e across a part of his
hist ory. What m ost st ands out is t he shock and surprise t hat he feels wit h his
newfound inform at ion. While Droller does t ell us out right about his excit em ent , “ I
had uncovered a piece of m y hist ory,” he also illust rat es his ent husiasm wit h t he
descript ion of his t elephone conversat ion and his im pat ience t o reveal his findings.
This leaves t he reader want ing t o learn m ore about t he det ails of t he bom bing and
how it affect ed his fam ily.
The essay’s form could, however, be m ade st ronger. Despit e t he defining m om ent
found at t he very end of t he essay, t he opening has lit t le direct ion. There isn’t m uch
indicat ion as t o t he m ain point of t he essay. A reader would probably be m ore
int erest ed in t he det ails surrounding t he bom bing, shedding m ore light on t he
relat ionship bet ween m ot her and son. We are not shown how t his discovery affect ed
t heir relat ionship or if Droller now t hinks different ly about his m ot her based on what
she went t hrough during her childhood. A det ailed account of t he aut hor ’s
int eract ions wit h his m ot her, and his knowledge of his m ot her ’s childhood, m ight
have m ade t he final realizat ion about t he bom bing m ore em ot ional and revealing
about Droller ’s charact er.

“To Soa r , Fr e e ”

“ To Soar, Free”
- - by Vanessa G. Henke
A cold, blust ery wint er st orm swept m y grandparent s and I int o t he warm t h of m y
aunt ’s living room , where she was host ing her t radit ional Christ m as Eve part y. My
hat and cape were t aken from m e, revealing t he Vict orian part y dress, which had
been designed and painst akingly t ailored j ust for m e. The m usic lift ed m e, and chills
surged t hrough m y body. I was ent hralled, ecst at ic wit h t he power of t he orchest ra.
My excit em ent m ount ed as I realized t hat , for a few brief m om ent s, t he audience at
t he opening night of The Nut cracker at New York Cit y’s Lincoln Cent er was focusing
on m y perform ance. At nine years old, t his was m y long- await ed debut . Any vest ige
of uncert aint y about m y perform ance had dissipat ed. I was t ransform ed from a shy
young girl int o a confident perform er.
Over t he years, as m y t echnique im proved and I spent increasing am ount s of t im e
each week pract icing and perform ing, I learned t o value t he discipline required of a
professional. Wit hout so m any hours dedicat ed t o pract ice, I would never have been
able t o execut e powerful leaps across t he st age in perform ance. I n class, or on st age,
t he m usic would pulse t hrough every fiber of m y being, m y body resonat ing t o every
not e of t he score. I discovered t hat discipline and dedicat ion gave m e t he confidence
necessary for m e t o refine m y t echnique and st yle, and t o fulfill m y pot ent ial and
dream – t o dance like anot her inst rum ent in t he orchest ra.
This past sum m er, I t aught ballet and choreographed dance at Buck’s Rock Cam p for
t he Creat ive and Perform ing Art s. There, I discovered t hat fulfillm ent can com e not
only from soaring across t he st age, but by com m unicat ing what I have learned t o
ot hers. I em ulat ed t he good t echniques of m y best t eachers, so t hat m y st udent s
could find pleasure in dance. For m y m ore advanced st udent s, I offered
well- deserved praise and helped t hem t o refine t heir skills. For st udent s wit h less
experience, I t ried t o fost er self- confidence and creat e an environm ent in which
t hey could learn, ask quest ions and m ake m ist akes wit hout feeling asham ed. The
rewards for m y effort s were t he st udent s’ im proved self- confidence and skills.
The discipline I learned during m y five years wit h t he New York Cit y Ballet helped m e
underst and t hat wit h freedom com es responsibilit y. When I perform ed at Lincoln
Cent er, I danced across t he st age, free, because of t he hours of preparat ion and
t hought ful considerat ion I put int o planning classes and rehearsals, inspiring
st udent s t o be t heir best . I now have a great er appreciat ion for t he value of m y
experiences as a perform er, I am a m ore fulfilled person and I feel confident and
ent husiast ic about fut ure endeavors. I will cont inue t o soar, free.

ANALYSI S
I n her essay, t he aut hor of “ To Soar, Free” dem onst rat es an underst anding t hat if an
essay about a “ significant experience or achievem ent ” is t o be successful, it m ust
dist inguish it self from a pack of surely sim ilar essay t opics. Alt hough t he aut hor ’s
chosen t opic is not all t hat different t han writ ing about playing sport s or perform ing
ot her t ypes of art , t his essay st ands out . The aut hor gracefully highlight s t he
personal im port ance of perform ing and t eaching ballet , using her progression in t he
art t o reflect her personal and physical growt h. Beginning wit h a childhood m em ory
about her first ballet perform ance, t he aut hor begins t o paint a pict ure for t he reader
of j ust how dance has influenced her life. From t here, t he reader get s a sense of t he
increasing significance of t his act ivit y, t o t he point where he or she learns t hat t his
love for ballet has inspired t he aut hor t o inst ruct ot hers in her art form . I n her final
paragraph, t he essayist closes wit h general conclusions about t he lessons she
learned t hrough dance.
By beginning her passage wit h an anecdot e about her first m aj or ballet perform ance,
t he aut hor dist ances her piece from a m ore st raight forward
“ what- dancing- m eans- t o- m e” essay. I nst ead of spelling out t he reasoning behind
her love of ballet , t he aut hor encourages t he reader t o cont inue reading. Not unt il
t he end of t he fourt h sent ence does he or she know what exact ly has been causing
t he chills and excit em ent t hat t he aut hor illust rat es so well in t he opening sent ences.
Wit h a set t ing firm ly est ablished, t he aut hor is t hen free t o proceed wit h her
narrat ive. The reader observes t he aut hor ’s love of dance grew m ore int ense as she
got older and becam e m ore serious about t his act ivit y. Moreover, in t he t hird
paragraph, t he aut hor int roduces an int erest ing t wist t o t he essay, as she chronicles
her experiences on t he ot her side of dance, as a ballet t eacher at a sum m er cam p.
This com plicat ion works well at illum inat ing t he way in which t he aut hor learns t o
see t hat ballet can offer m ore fulfillm ent t han j ust t hat from t he t hrill of
perform ance.
Alt hough t his essay is effect ive at highlight ing t he m any ways in which ballet has
affect ed t he aut hor ’s life, it lacks flow and does not efficient ly link it s varied point s
and ideas. The connect ion bet ween t he second and t hird paragraphs is especially
abrupt . This spot is an ideal j unct ure t o suggest t he m any ways in which dance –
aside from it s direct perform ance and pract ice – has influenced her life. Especially in
essays about significant personal experiences or achievem ent s, it is ext rem ely
im port ant t o m ake effect ive use of t ransit ional phrases and words t o connect t he
individual point s wit h t he overall t hem e. Be t hat as it m ay, aft er com piling a solid
essay wit h unique perspect ives and dim ensions, t he aut hor subt ract s from her piece
by offering clichéd conclusions in t he final paragraph t hat are easy t o incorporat e
int o any essay of t his form . The challenge is t o ident ify and highlight conclusions
unique t o t he sit uat ion.

“On e H u n dr e d Pa ir s of Eye s”

“ One Hundred Pairs of Eyes”

- - by Pat ricia M. Glynn
Awareness. An awareness t hat all eyes from one hundred yards of green grass are
focused on a cert ain point in space is what drives t hrough m y t hought s as I st and
poised. These eyes disregard t he peripheral chat t er of spect at ors, t he cold wind
whist ling in t he night air around t hem , and t he harshness of t he whit e light s over t he
field. They focus only on t his one spot before m y hands and, t o begin t heir show,
t hey wait for a sim ple m ot ion, a m ere flick of t he wrist . As a t ingling sensat ion arises
in m y fingert ips, I lift m y hands in preparat ion. One hundred pairs of eyes breat he
in unison across t he hundred yards, and m y hands descend in a pract iced pat t ern
t oward t hat one point in space. I t is t hat point where t he hundred pairs of eyes
release t heir breat h int o t heir various inst rum ent s, where t he m usic is creat ed, and
where t he show begins.
This experience is one t hat I get t o relive every Friday night while conduct ing t he
Plym out h High School m arching band in it s weekly half- t im e perform ance for t he
foot ball fans. While I have perform ed as one of t he pairs of eyes, as conduct or and
Senior Drum m aj or I feel a great er part of t he show t han I ever did before. I feel
every not e and every phrase of m usic from every inst rum ent , and I pull even m ore
m usic from t hose inst rum ent s. Their int ensit y is sparked from m y int ensit y, and
m ine builds on t heirs. The int ensit y is not only from t he m usic; it com es from t he
eyes. I t ’s m y eyes scanning t he field, scout ing for problem s, and brokering
confidence t hat com m and an int ensit y in response. This is t he great est feeling in t he
world.
As m y m ot ions becom e larger and larger and m y left hand pushes upward, I dem and
volum e from t he band while it crescendos t oward it s final not es. Building volum e
and drive, t his m usic sends a t ingling sensat ion from m y fingert ips t hrough m y
wrist s and pulsing t hrough m y body. My shoulders ache but keep driving t he beat ,
and m y em ot ions are keyed up. As t he brass builds and t he band snaps t o at t ent ion
in t he last pict ure of t he show, t he percussion line pushes t he m usic wit h a driving
hit . Musicians and conduct or alike clim ax wit h t he m usic unt il reaching t hat sam e
inst ant in t im e. Wit h a rigorous closing of m y fist s, t he m usic st ops, but t he eyes
hold t heir focus, inst rum ent s poised, unt il a sm ile st ret ches across m y face and m y
feat ures relax, t ingling wit h pent up em ot ion. Applause.
ANALYSI S
An essay t hat asks for discussion of an im port ant ext racurricular act ivit y m ay be j ust
t he place for an applicant t o discuss in great er det ail why part icipat ing in st udent
governm ent m akes his or her world go’ round. But as in t his case, t he essay m ay
also offer an opport unit y for an applicant t o furt her describe a unique or
unconvent ional int erest . “ One Hundred Pairs of Eyes” det ails t he aut hor ’s
experiences as conduct or of her high school foot ball band – a posit ion t hat on paper
m ay not carry m uch weight , despit e it s m any responsibilit ies. Through her
descript ion of leading one hundred m usicians in t he com plexit ies of a half- t im e show,
t he reader gains unique insight int o being at t he helm of a m arching band – a
posit ion from which few people have observed t he perspect ive.
The aut hor begins her essays wit h rich descript ion –she is t he point of focus for one
hundred set s of eyes. By personifying t he eyes, t he aut hor paint s a m arvelous
pict ure of t he scene. The reader can alm ost sense t he posit ion from which she m ust
be st anding and t he enorm it y of t he group at her feet . But he or she is left t o wonder
what sort of awkward sit uat ion m ay be causing t his unique scenario. Just as t he
aut hor creat es an int ense sensat ion of t ension in t he essay, t he reader t oo holds his
or her breat h in advance of t he announcem ent t hat Glynn is t he leader of a m arching
band. As she cont inues, t he aut hor cont rast s her experiences as conduct or wit h
t hose of being a perform er, shedding light on t he exhilarat ion of holding t he gaze of
t he hundred m usicians who look t o her for rhyt hm and t em po. And wit h descript ive
language in t he t hird paragraph, t he aut hor encourages t he reader t o push onward,
t oward t he finale of bot h t he m usic and t he essay. The passage ends wit h an
im pressive sense of relief bot h for t he band m em bers and t he reader.

“Th e Lost Ga m e ”

“ The Lost Gam e”

- - by St ephanie A. St uart
When I was lit t le m y fat her used t o play a gam e wit h m e driving hom e. I t s m ain
subst ance was som et hing like t his: he would say, oh no, I seem t o be lost ; how shall
we get hom e? And t hen he would ask, which way? Gleefully, I would crane m y neck
above t he seat ; according t o t he gam e, his befuddlem ent was hopeless, and I alone
as navigat or could bring us hom e. No doubt I seem ed cont rary as I direct ed him
furt her and furt her down back st reet s, but m y secret incent ive was explorat ion. As
a sm all child t here is very lit t le one can cont rol in one’s world; t o have cont rol over
an ent ire grown- up – not t o m ent ion a whole car – was t rem endously appealing. The
real allure, t hough, was in going t he “ wrong” way – as soon as we t urned left where
we usually t urned right , t he world was so brand new it m ight have only appeared t he
m om ent we rounded t he corner. My heart would beat below m y t hroat as I gave t he
direct ion t o t urn, st ret ching m y neck from m y place in t he backseat , eager and
afraid: suppose I did really get us lost ? The secret desire t o discover always won out
over t he fear, but I can st ill recall t he flut t er of m y heart on t he inside of m y ribs as
I navigat ed t he roundabout connect ions which was as m yst erious as t he Nort hwest
Passage, lone link bet ween t he cul- de- sacs.
Explorat ion was a quest I t ook t o heart ; alone, I would set out on expedit ions int o
our back yard, or down t he st reet , creat ing a m ent al m ap concent ric t o our doorst ep.
Discovery bloom ed m agical for m e; m arked on t he m ap were t he locat ions of
abandoned t ree houses, bell= blue flowers and plant s wit h flat powdery leaves t he
size of silver dollars.
The ot her night it fell t o m y brot her and m e t o ret urn a m ovie. Aft er we left it on t he
count er, t hough, our sense of advent ure got t he bet t er of us. Oh dear, I said, I
seem ed t o be lost . Where shall I go? Eager t o discover t he t own which sm oldered at
one o’clock under t he orange and violet of sodium st reet lam ps, he chose t he road
less t raveled, at least by our wheels.
We wound int o t he pine forest in t he dead of night ; m oonlight feel eerie across our
laps, st iat ed by t ree t runks. I crest ed a hill slowly: Mont erey spread in a light ed grid
below us, down t o t he darkening sea.
Above, t he Milky Way sprang apart and arched like a dance. I angled m y ear for a
m om ent t o Gat sby’s t uning fork, t hat pure, ent icing t one t hat echoes from t he
spheres. Think, rem em ber, I wished upon him , what it is t o explore, and t he
explorer ’s incent ive: discovery.
“ Which way?” I asked him , and he grinned slowly, m oonlight glint ing far- off m ischief
in his eyes. The st reet s spread ort hogonal before us; t he pure realm of possibilit y
opened from t hem .
“ St raight ahead,” he said, and I sm iled.

ANALYSI S
St ephanie’s essay falls int o t he life experiences cat egory. However, rat her t han
focusing on a signle life- changing experience, St ephanie shows her approach
t oward personal discovery by relat ing t he sot ry of riding in a car and changing t he
st andard direct ions as a m eans of st um bling upon unexplored worlds. The essay is
well cont rolled – at no point does she st ray t owward overst at ing t he significance of
t hese individual event s, but deft ly uses t hem as a t ool t o illust rat e her
advent ure- seeking at t it ude t oward life and her unwillingness t o be sat isfied wit h t he
rout ine. St ephanie furt her highlight ed t he im port ance of discovery when she
subm it t ed t he essay t o t he adm issions office on U.S. Geological Survey m aps – a
t hought ful t ouch.
The essay’s great est asset is t he sense of personal developm ent St ephanie conveys.
What begins as a cut e st ory of her childhood is used wonderfully t o highlight her
personal developm ent as she writ es of a t enet in her life: “ Think, rem em ber … what
it is t o explore, and t he explorer ’s incent ive: discovery.” St ephanie avoids list ing her
accom plishm ent s in a resum e put int o sent ence form , but st ill capt ures im port ant
aspect s of her ident it y, nam ely her inquisit iveness. The essay is well- paced and
calm , wit h a solid developm ent from beginning t o end. St ephanie describes sensory
aspect s of her st ory ( “ flat , powdery leaves t he size of silver dollars” ) wit h great word
choice wit hout overdoing it . I t is clear t hat every word in t he essay was carefully
chosen t o accurat ely and succint ly describe her subj ect . Not only does her essay
successfully paint a pict ure of her as an curious lit t le child, it shows t hat t he sam e
inquisit iveness she exhibit ed t hen she st ill possesses, now coupled wit h m ore
responsibilit y, as she drives her brot her and encourages his inquisit iveness.
The biggest risk in t his essay is t hat it does not adequat ely showcase her
accom plishm ent s, norm ally a st andard part of a college essay. While it worked for
her, t his has m uch t o do wit h t he ext raordinary level of care she t ook in craft ing t he
essay; her diligence shows, and t he essay is an insight ful, well- writ t en, and
well- paced piece of work.

“W a r m H e a r t s a n d a Cold Gu n ”

“ Warm Heart s and a Cold Gun”

- - by Jam es A. Colbert
I f a six- foot- t all m an slinging a sem i- aut om at ic rifle had approached m e in
Greenfield, I probably would have scream ed for help. However, being in a foreign
land, unable even t o speak t he nat ive t ongue, m y opt ions of recourse were
significant ly lim it ed. The loom ing creat ure, dressed m ost ly in black, wit h short , dark
hair, proceeded t o grasp m y right hand. As a sm ile furt ively crept across his face, he
m out hed, “ Tim e t o get on t he bus.”
“ What ?” I nervously spurt ed at t he cold weapon before m e.
“ I ’m sorry. I didn’t int roduce m yself,” he said. “ I ’m Ofir, your counselor.”
Com plet ely unnerved, I hurried ont o t he bus t o be sure t he gun rem ained at his side.
“ Did you know one of our leaders is a guy wit h a gun?” I asked a girl from
Philadelphia, sit t ing beside m e.
“ What did you expect ? This is I srael, not New England.”
At t he end of m y j unior year I decided t o go t o I srael t o escape from t he st im ulat ing
but confining at m osphere of Deerfield Academ y. I yearned for a new environm ent
where I could m eet st udent s unlike t he ones I knew, where I could explore a foreign
cult ure, and where I could learn m ore about m y religion. The brochure from t he
Nesiya I nst it ut e had m ent ioned a “ creat ive j ourney” feat uring hikes in t he desert ,
workshops wit h prom inent I sraeli art ist s, dialogues bet ween Arabs and Jews, and
discussions on I sraeli cult ure and Judaism , but nowhere had it m ent ioned
counselors wit h rifles. I suddenly wondered if I had m ade t he right decision.
Weeks lat er, sit t ing out side t he Bayit Va’gan Yout h host el as t he sun began t o sink in
t he I sraeli sky, I sm iled wit h reassurance. As I looked up from writ ing in m y j ournal,
a group of m ist y clouds converged t o form an opaque m ass. But t he inexorable sun
dem onst rat ed her t enacit y. One by one, golden arrows pierced t he celest ial canopy
t o illum inat e t he lush, green valley bet ween Yad Vashem and t he hills of west ern
Jerusalem . I could feel holiness in t hose rays of golden light t hat radiat ed from t he
sun like spokes of a heavenly wheel.
That m om ent was one of t he m ost spirit ual of m y life. The nat ural grandeur of t he
sight seem ed t o bring t oget her t he m ost m eaningful experiences of m y five weeks
in I srael: wat ching t he sunrise over t he Red Sea, wading chest- deep t hrough a
st ream in t he Golan Height s, looking up at t he m yriad st ars in t he desert sky,
exploring a cave in Negev, and clim bing t he lim est one precipice of Masada. These
nat ural t em ples far surpassed any lim est one sanct uary built by m an.
Shift ing m y gaze downwards, I not iced Ofir st anding beside m e wit h his eyes fixed
on t he sacred valley. At age t went y- five, his head was already balding, but t he
expression on his face, wit h his eyes st ret ched wide and his j aws part ed, rem inded
m e of a child st art ing wit h delight at a fish in an aquarium . For over a m inut e neit her
of us spoke. That poignant silence said m ore t han a t housand words could ever
express.
Being an em pirical person, I need confirm at ion, t o prove t o m yself t hat I
underst ood.
Finally, I said t o Ofir, “ This is holiness.” His weapon bounced as he swiveled t o look
m e in t he eye. As he nodded in affirm at ion, a beam of light t ranscended his pupils t o
produce a t elling spark of corroborat ion.
Em erson said in “ Nat ure,” “ The sun illum inat es only t he eye of m an, but shines int o
t he eye and heart of t he child.” I carried an L. L. Bean backpack, and Ofir carried an
Uzi, but t hat aft ernoon as t he sun warm ed our heart s, we were bot h children.

ANALYSI S
The t opic of t his essay works well because it conveys t he aut hor ’s personal growt h
from an experience unique t o m ost Am erican st udent s. His declarat ion of his
decision t o leave t he at m osphere of his boarding school t o t ravel abroad est ablishes
him as a st udent willing t o broaden his horizons and vent ure t o t he unknown. The
init ial com parison of I srael t o his hom et own is t hought fully phrased and expresses
his honest feelings.
The aut hor is ext rem ely concise in t his essay, describing everyt hing t hat is
necessary and leaving out unnecessary det ails. His personal voice is evident . Rat her
t han give plain descript ions of t he places he visit ed, t he aut hor recalls his personal
react ion t o seeing such places, t herefore allow ing t he reader t o get t o know t he
writ er ’s own perspect ive.
The dialogue in t his essay is also succinct , but com plet e. The aut hor int egrat es ot her
voices in his essay because t hose voices are part of his experience abroad. Finally,
t he closing quot e from Em erson’s “ Nat ure” is well used and t ies t oget her wit h t he
poignant im agery of t he cont rast ing L. L. Bean backpack and Uzi, leaving t he reader
wit h a vision of what t he writ er experienced.

“I n t h e W a it in g Room ”

“ I n t he Wait ing Room ”

By Carlin E. Wing
You will not t hink, m y m ind firm ly inform ed m e; you are m uch t oo busy being
nervous t o t hink. I sat in t he m ot her of all wait ing room s. My pen t raveled frant ically
across t he pages of m y black book, recording every det ail of t he room in fragm ent s
t hat passed for poet ry. I t ried t o writ e som et hing deeply insight ful about t he
procedure I was about t o undergo but failed t o produce even an opening sent ence.
These were t he final m inut es before m y hand would be separat ed from m y pen for
t en weeks. Even if I could not t hink, I needed t o writ e. My eyes becam e m y pen and
I wrot e:
Wait ing Room
The nam e dict at es t he at m osphere
The walls, papered in print ed beige,
Are dot t ed wit h past el pict ure.
Two square colum ns int errupt t he room ,
At t ended by brown plast ic t rash bins.
An undecided carpet of green, black, gray, red, blue
Mirrors t he undecided feelings of t he occupant s.
And none of t hese m ask t he inevit able t ension of t he space.
I paused and lift ed m y head t o st are at The Door t hat led t o m y fat e.
My fat e was t o have wrist surgery. Three years before, I had been t old t hat t he
fract ure in m y wrist would heal. Earlier t his year, I was again sit t ing in front of X- rays
and MRI result s list ening t o t he doct or say t hat t he old fract ure had been an
indicat ion t hat t he ligam ent s and t endons were t orn. I could have declined t o have
surgery and never played com pet it ive squash again. I t was never an opt ion.
I am a j ock. My com pet it ive personalit y finds a safe place t o release it self on a
playing field. My st rongest m ot ivat ion is t he prospect of doing what no one expect s
I can do. However, t he hardest com pet it ion I face is t hat of m y own expect at ions.
Squash allows m e t o put t he perfect ionist in m e t o good use. The beaut y of squash,
and sport s in general, is t hat I never reach an ant i- clim ax because t here is always a
higher level t o reach for. Squash requires a healt hy wrist . Surgery would m ake m y
wrist healt hy. My im m ediat e react ion t o t he doct or ’s words was “ Yes, I want surgery.
How soon can it be done? How long unt il I can play squash again? Can I wat ch?”
No one underst ood t hat last part . My parent s j okingly t old t heir friends about m y
desire t o observe t he surgery, and t he doct or was adam ant ly opposed t o t he idea.
But I had not been j oking. I t was m y wrist t hey were going t o be working on. I
t hought t hat ent it led m e t o wat ch. Anyhow, I had never seen an operat ion and was
fascinat ed by t he idea of som eone being able t o sew a t endon back t oget her. I had
t his im age of a doct or pulling out t he needle and t hread and set t ing t o work,
whist ling. Perhaps subconsciously I want ed t o supervise t he operat ion, t o m ake
sure t hat all t he lit t le pieces were sewn back int o t he right places ( adm it t edly not a
very rat ional t hought since I wouldn’t know by sight if t hey were sewing t hem
t oget her or t earing t hem apart ) . I underst ood t he doct or ’s fear t hat I would panic
and m ess up t he operat ion. St ill, I want ed t o wat ch. I felt it would give m e a degree
of cont rol over t his inj ury t hat had com e t o dom inat e m y life wit hout perm ission.
Unfort unat ely, t he final decision was not m ine t o m ake and t he surgery was t o go
unrecorded by m y eyes, lost in t he m em ories of doct ors who perform t hese
operat ions daily.
The Door opened and I looked up, t ingling wit h hope and apprehension. I n response
t o t he nurse’s call a fragile elderly lady in a cashm ere sweat er and flowered scarf
was wheeled t owards The Door by her son. As she passed m e I overheard her say,
“ Let ’s rock and roll.” The words echoed in m y ears and penet rat ed m y heart . As I
wat ched her disappear beyond The Door, I silent ly t hanked her for t he sudden dose
of courage she had unknowingly inj ect ed in m e. I f she could do it , I could do it . I was
next and before t oo long I was lying on a gurney in a room filled wit h doct ors. I t old
t he anest hesiologist t hat I did not want t o be put t o sleep, even t hough a curt ain hid
t he act ual operat ion from m y sight . I said “ Hi” t o Dr. Melone an, as t he operat ion
began, sang cont ent edly along wit h t he Blues Brot hers.

ANALYSI S
Chronicling an int im at e m om ent or ot her personal experience requires part icular
at t ent ion and care in t he essay- writ ing process. An aut hor m ust be conscious t hat
he or she creat es an appropriat e sense of balance t hat at once capt ures t he reader
while allowing for a sense of genuine personal reflect ion t o show t hrough. To be sure,
t he risk of t urning t he reader off wit h overly personal det ails or unnecessarily deep
conclusions is a const ant t hreat . However, “ I n t he Wait ing Room ” reflect s a
successful at t em pt at convincing t he reader t hat t he aut hor ’s wrist surgery m erit s
his or her at t ent ion. Alt hough unfocused, t his work dem onst rat es t hat an essay
about an ot herwise insignificant t opic can in fact be insight ful and even t ouching.
By est ablishing a st rong sense of t ension at t he beginning of t he essay, “ I n t he
Wait ing Room ” succeeds where ot her personal reflect ion works oft en falt er. The
aut hor does not begin wit h a t opic sent ence or ot her device t hat st at es t he essay’s
point right away. To do so in t his sort of essay would be t o m ake t he piece t oo m uch
like a “ what- I - did- last- sum m er ” narrat ive. I nst ead, t he reader is kept in suspense
unt il t he second paragraph of t he piece of t hat which is causing t he aut hor ’s angst .
Only t hen does t he aut hor spell out t hat it is his im pending wrist surgery – and not
a shot or t est result s – which has caused such great anxiet y. As t he essay cont inues,
t he aut hor uses t he occasion of wait ing for t he surgery t o reflect on m any of his
com plem ent ary at t ribut es: writ er, at hlet e, coward and st oic. Overall, t he writ ing is
clear and unpret ent ious.
Yet in illust rat ing his m ult iple roles, t he aut hor t ends t o lose focus of t he essay’s
overall point . Where it seem s like t he aut hor port rays him self as an avid writ er from
t he flow of t he first paragraph, t he reader is surprised t o learn t hat t he aut hor is
act ually a self- described “ j ock” who plays squash. Before ret urning t o t he t opic of
t he operat ion, t he aut hor t akes anot her m om ent t o reflect on his m ot ivat ion for
part icipat ing in sport s. The essay loses significant st eam and regains it only wit h t he
announcem ent t hat t he aut hor hopes t o observe his own surgery. While int erest ing
independent ly, t hese com plicat ions dist ract from t he overall point . An essayist m ust
be aware of t he need t o ensure t hat t he flow of writ ing m aint ains a definit e sense of
direct ion – and doesn’t m eander t oo far from t hat pat h.

“M y Re spon sibilit y”

“ My Responsibilit y”
- - by David J. Bright
When she hung up t he phone, she im m ediat ely burst int o t ears and grabbed out in
all direct ions for som et hing t o hold ont o as she sank t o t he floor. I st ood t here
m ot ionless, not knowing what t o do, not knowing what t o say, not even knowing
what had happened. I t wasn’t unt il I answered t he door m om ent s lat er and saw t he
police officers st anding in t he alcove t hat I finally discovered what had t aken place.
My fift een-year- old brot her had been arrest ed. I t was only t en days before
Christ m as, a year ago t oday when it happened, but st ill I rem em ber it like
yest erday.
Robert had always been a ram bunct ious as a child – wild and lively, as m y m om
always said. He was const ant ly j oking around, playing pranks, and causing m ayhem ,
but his engaging personalit y and sm all st at ure always seem ed t o save him from t he
firing line. This gave him t he not ion t hat he could cause any am ount of t rouble
wit hout feeling t he repercussions. As a youngst er growing up in I reland, he had
found few opport unit ies t o get int o a great deal of t rouble. But four years ago at t he
age of t welve, t he rules changed for him when he, m y m ot her and I m oved t o
Am erica.
The sam e short st at ure t hat had been his ally in I reland was now Robert ’s enem y in
Am erica. He was bullied and beat en on a daily basis. Since I couldn’t be t here all t he
t im e, Robert sought t he prot ect ion from ot hers. By t he end of his first year in
Am erica, he had already j oined a gang.
His appearance det eriorat ed, personalit y disappeared, and aggressiveness
increased, leaving him an angry, hollowed out , m anic depressive. Aft er a year or so,
 his fright eningly self- dest ruct ive behavior and t errifying appearance forced m y
m om t o send him t o a suicide t reat m ent cent er. There he received round t he clock
at t ent ion, counseling, and m edicat ion for his depression and aggressiveness. He
was released aft er a couple of m ont hs.
Only a few short weeks lat er, supposedly aft er m ixing his m edicat ion wit h alcohol,
he went out wit h his friends t o go t o t he st ore. There t hey robbed, shot and killed a
st ore clerk Robert , as an accom plice t o t he crim e, was charged wit h arm ed robbery
and second degree m urder.
Looking back now, I realize not what Robert had done wrong, but what I had done
wrong. I had t aken no int erest in his welfare, and I never int ervened when he
needed m e t o. I j ust sat back and let it all com e crashing down around m e. I t ’s in
t his respect t hat I guess I ’ve changed t he m ost . I ’m now a m uch m ore involved
person. I no longer allow t hings t o j ust happen’ I m ust be a part of everyt hing t hat
affect s m e. I ’m also a m ore caring and bet t er person. To m ake up fro what I did – or
rat her, didn’t do – I look out for t hose around m e, m y fam ily and m y friends. I act
like a big brot her t o t hem t o com pensat e for not being any kind of brot her at all t o
Robert .
The experience hasn’t only m ade m e bet t er. I n a st range way, it was also t he best
t hing t hat could have happened t o Robert . He’s t urned his life around and is
present ly preparing t o t ake t he SATs in ant icipat ion t o go on t o college, som et hing
t he old Robert would never have done.
I guess it ’s sort of weird, isn’t it . Such a dreadful experience can change an ent ire
fam ily’s life, and how such a t ragic sit uat ion could give birt h t o such great t hings.

ANALYSI S
Bright ’s int ensely personal essay shows us t he posit ive out com e of what seem s like
an overwhelm ingly negat ive experience, t hat is, t he arrest of his brot her. Through
his t alkat ive, int im at e writ ing st yle, Bright is able t o reach his readers because he
does not t ake a sent im ent al or m oralist ic t one. The st rengt h of t his essay lies in it s
honest y and it s abilit y not only t o crit icize his brot her, Robert , for his t ransgression,
but t o reprim and t he aut hor for his, as well. What m akes t his essay so unique is t hat
Bright finds him self at fault and dem onst rat es his personal growt h from his m ist akes,
unlike m ost college essays t hat are highly self- adulat ing in nat ure. Through
accurat ely assessing where he went wrong by not act ing like a t rue brot her t o
Robert , Bright ’s piece is m ore im pressive t han m ost college essays.
Anot her great st rengt h of Bright ’s essay is t he m at urit y he displays by being able t o
t ake t he blam e for his brot her ’s dem ise. This is a charact erist ic of a t rue big brot her,
one who knows how m uch his siblings adm ire and respect him , as well as value his
j udgm ent . I nst ead of harshly reproaching Robert for his crim e, Bright t urns t o
him self and how he “ had t aken no int erest in his [ Robert ’s] welfare.” Furt herm ore,
Bright illust rat es how he was m at ure enough t o learn from his errors and im prove
him self: “ I act like a big brot her … t o com pensat e for not being any kind of brot her
at all t o Robert .” Bright is able t o see t hat t here are posit ive aspect s of t his bad
experience and t hen applies t hem t o his life; he shows t o us t hat he is willing t o
change him self and m ake up for what he did not do for Robert by becom ing “ a m uch
m ore involved person.” I n his essay, m any aspect s of Bright shine t hrough: his
m at urit y and st rengt h, as well as his capacit y t o see a bright silver lining on what
looks like a black t hundercloud. Qualit ies such as t hese are ult im at ely t he m ost
im port ant in t erm s of m easuring who one is.
The only t hing t hat Bright m ight have added t o his essay is m ore of what happened
t o Robert . We learn t hat Robert was arrest ed, and is now st udying for his SATs and
preparing t o go t o college, but we are not t old what happened t o him bet ween his
arrest and his self- im provem ent . How did Robert decide t o t urn his life around?
What challenges did he face? The second t o last paragraph m ight need a lit t le m ore
det ail as t o how Robert went t hrough t he process of becom ing who he is t oday. Yet ,
aside from t his one m inor com m ent , t he essay st ands on it s own – it j um ps out at
t he reader for it s uniqueness, for it s quiet , yet powerful, personal revelat ions.

“Th e Lin e ”

“ The Line”
- - by Daniel B. Visel
“ There is no chance,” wrot e Ella Wheeler Wilcox, “ no dest iny, no fat e, t hat can
circum vent or hinder or cont rol t he firm resolve of a det erm ined soul.” These words
are from her poem “ Will,” a favorit e of m y Aunt May. Though Mrs. Wilcox’s words on
chance and dest iny never really caught m y ear when Aunt May read it t o m e so
m any t im es, t hose words resonat ed in m y head Decem ber 9, 1994, a day t hat I will
never forget . On t hat day, I st ood before Judge St anley Pivner t o t est ify against m y
best friend, Wyat t . The workings of fat e are st range indeed: Wyat t and I had been
friends since kindergart en, when we went t o Suzuki violin lessons t oget her. We had
been t he best of all possible friends in grade school, helped each ot her t hrough t he
t roubled j unior high years, and have rem ained close t hrough high school. Our pat hs,
t hough, had led us in different direct ions: I spent all m y t im e st udying for classes,
while he invest ed t im e and m oney in soaping up his 1986 Dodge Ram . College didn’t
seem t he necessit y t o him t hat it did for m e: Wyat t lived for t he m om ent . The fut ure,
for him , would be dealt wit h when he cam e t o it .
Wyat t ’s crowd was a wild bunch. I was wary of t hem – t hey did dangerous t hings.
Som ehow, I didn’t associat e Wyat t wit h any of t his, t hought : he was Wyat t , m y
friend, a known quant it y. I guess I had been t oo busy st udying t o not ice how m uch
he had changed. I t didn’t hit m e unt il a Thursday night m y senior year = = t he night
t hat Wyat t pulled up in his t ruck and asked if I was doing anyt hing. I had finished m y
m at h hom ework for t he week, and had a good st art on a draft of t he t erm paper I
was writ ing on Dut ch paint ers, so I said t hat I wasn’t . I got in t he t ruck wit h Wyat t ,
and we hit t he road, heading t o Barbert on.
“ Why are we going t o Barbert on?” I asked Wyat t .
“ I got a plan,” he replied, sounding dark. I not iced t hat t here was a funny odor in t he
car – it sm elled like beer. Had Wyat t been drinking? I wondered. I didn’t say
anyt hing, t hough; I didn’t want t o lose face in front of som eone I respect ed. There
was a pained silence in t he car as we sped t owards Barbert on. As I kept a firm eye
on t he road, m aking sure t hat Wyat t wasn’t swerving or driving t oo fast , I
recollect ed t hat Friday was t he day of t he Barbert on foot ball gam e.
We pulled up in t he lot of t he Barbert on high school. I rem ained silent . To t his day,
I wonder why I didn’t say som et hing, why I couldn’t find words t o st op him . We got
out of t he t ruck; Wyat t got a pair of lockcut t ers out from under his seat , and I
followed him around t he back of t he high school. You could punct ure t he silence wit h
a st ilet t o.
I realized, t oo lat e, what was happening. Barbert on was our high school rival; every
year, people from our school t alked about kidnapping t he Barbert on m ascot , a m ale
baboon nam ed Heracles t hat t hey kept in a shed behind t he school. Nobody act ually
did anyt hing about it , t hough. Wyat t , t hough, seem ed int ent on changing t hat . I
followed dum bly, m y heart heavy wit h angst .
“ Wyat t , t his is lunacy,” I t old him . He said not hing, only sm iled m enacingly. I could
sm ell t he alcohol on his breat h. I didn’t know what t o do; I followed his direct ions
when he t old m e t o st and guard. Quickly and skillfully he cut t he lock holding t he
door shut , t hen opened t he door. I t was pit ch- black inside t he shed; Heracles was
evident ly asleep. He called out t he beast ’s nam e; som et hing st irred inside, t here
was a yawn, and Heracles cam e sham bling out . I had never seen t he m onkey before;
I was surprised at how friendly and well- m annered he was. He scrut inized us,
looking for som e kind of a handout I guess – how was he t o know what Wyat t had in
m ind? Wyat t was im pressed wit h Heracles’s friendliness: he t old m e t hat t his was
going t o be easier t han we had t hought . The m onkey good- nat uredly followed us
back t o t he parking lot . Wit h a lit t le work, we succeeded in get t ing him int o t he back
of t he pickup t ruck. Wyat t t hrew a t arp over him , we got in t he cab, and we st art ed
off, m y brain full of anxiet y.
Heracles, t hough, didn’t seem t o like t he back of t he t ruck t hat m uch. Som ehow, he
m anaged t o get out from under t he t arp; wit h a bound, he had j um ped from t he
t ruck t o t he parking lot . Som et hing t ripped in Wyat t right t hen; t o t his day, I ’m not
sure what it was. I suspect it was t he alcohol.
You have t o draw t he line som ewhere. On t hat day, what st art ed off as a sim ple high
school prank went horribly wrong. I t ’s im port ant t o support your friends, but t here
are som e t hings t hat are sim ply not allowed – and running over a m onkey wit h a
pickup t ruck is one of t hem . Wyat t was out of cont rol t hat night . Rage t ook hold of
him : he was no longer m y friend, he had sunk lower t han t he ape crushed beneat h
t he wheels of his t ruck. And so, on a chilly day in Decem ber, I found m yself on t he
wit ness st and, forced t o bear wit ness against m y best friend. Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s
words coursed t hrough m y blood t hat day: fat e had t aken t he pat hs of our lives
apart , but I was det erm ined t o do what was right . To follow t he t rut h is a difficult
pat h: it requires det erm inat ion, a det erm inat ion t hat I did not have t he night we
drove t o Barbert on. I learned som et hing t hat night . I t ’s a lesson t hat will st ay wit h
m e m y whole life.

ANALYSI S
Every applicat ion, j ust as every applicant , is unique. Everyone has a different st ory
t o t ell. This applicant does a good j ob of t elling t he st ory of an experience t hat
changed his life; alt hough his st ory is a bit longer t han is usual for an applicat ion, it
is generally t ight . The language is som ewhat flowery: t he num ber of superfluous
adj ect ives and adverbs could be cut down. Som e det ails m ight be t hought of as
ext raneous. Nobody needs t o know t hat t he nam e of t he m ascot was Heracles, for
exam ple. However, such det ails as t hese put a hum an spin on t he essay; t he reader
has an easy t im e const ruct ing a m ent al pict ure of t he applicant .
While t his applicat ion has a st rong st ory, t he st ruct ure which brings it t oget her is
som ewhat weak. The quot e, while it m ay have deep personal significance t o t he
aut hor, seem s like it could have been a random m ot ivat ional quot e grabbed off t he
int ernet . Though t he aut hor t ries hard t o int egrat e it int o t he st ory, he never really
succeeds; it seem s, finally , irrelevant .
This essay shines in t hat it gives t he reader an idea of som e qualit ies t hat would not
be brought out in t he rest of t he applicat ion. Loyalt y, det erm inat ion, and honor are
not virt ues t hat can be exhibit ed in a resum e. The aut hor present s a difficult
sit uat ion: t orn bet ween friendship and honest y, he chooses t he lat t er. A few
quest ions rem ain unanswered. Where is “ Wyat t ” now? Why does t he aut hor ’s
resolut ion of principles t ake so long t o com e about ? Nonet heless, Dan rem ains a
post er boy for honest y, a virt ue colleges are all t oo happy t o rally behind.

“En t e r in g a Sh a de d W or ld”

“ Ent ering a Shaded World”

- - by Ezra S. Tessler
Bending m y head t o pass t hrough t he low doorway I blinked deliberat ely, allowing
m y eyes t o adj ust t o t he dim light of t he cavernous room . Everyt hing was a clouded
dream , one t hat you are unable t o disent angle as it spins t hrough your unconscious,
but which som ehow begins t o unravel and becom e clearer only aft er you have
awakened. As m y eyes adj ust ed t o t he darkness int o which I had j ust ent ered, I
caught sight of t he seat ed figure illum inat ed by t he dim light . I was unable t o t ell if
he was m iles away in m y world or inches away in a dist ant world.
I approached t he dark figure, knowing t hat his eyes had felt m y presence but were
occupied and could wait t o m eet m y nearing figure wit h a fam iliar face. Then, he
raised his head slowly from t he drawing in his lap, his soft dark eyes focusing on
m ine as he gave a slight nod and a gent le sm ile, acknowledging m e wit h a few
m uffled words in Spanish. I st udied t he face and not iced t he subt le det ails. He was
barely t hirt y, but his face was creased wit h lines of st ruggle, pressed int o a clay
m ask by m any hard years. His dark count enance t ransport ed m e t hrough t im e t o a
place where I st ood in front of a noble Azt ec leader.
I had com e t o t his land t o experience a different cult ure, t o learn a foreign language,
and t o encount er new people. I had arrived in his st udio like a blank canvas: he had
found it , st ret ched it , and prepared it for t he t ransform at ion t hat would soon t ake
place. Wit h a gent le hand he had lift ed his paint brush from his palet t e, and
passionat ely sweeping his brush across t he canvas, he had creat ed a new
com posit ion in m e. He t hen carefully handed m e t he new paint ing, and wit h it , his
palet t e and paint brush, st ill holding t he paint he had used. I left cont aining t he
shades of his world and holding t he t ools needed t o face m y world.
His eyes shaded by m em ory., he had t old m e wit h hum ble pride t he st ories of his
people. He had recount ed his st ruggles his fight ing in t he revolut ion, and his com bat
in t he count ryside of Chiapas. He had described t he oppression he and his fam ily
had suffered from t he governm ent , all wit h t he gent le breeze of hope blowing
t hrough his words.
He had looked at m e one day as we bot h sat hunched over our sket chbooks, and
whispered in his lingering Spanish a single t hought : even if t hings did not change,
even if his hope was not fulfilled, he st ill had som et hing t hat no governm ent could
t ake away, som et hing t hat was his own and would wit her away only aft er he had
breat hed his last breat h. His soul was his, and he want ed t o share it t hrough his
art work.
My m ind float ed back int o t he cave, where it blinked, rubbed it s eyes, and soared
above t he scene. The scene had t wo figures facing each ot her, inches away in place
and t im e, but years away in experience, slowly connect ed inwardly as t hey
proceeded in being am idst each ot her, j oined by a connect ing t rut h and by t he soft
light which t hrew it s buoyant flicker over t he t wo m asses, dist ort ing and t wist ing
t hem int o infinit e and am orphous shapes wavering on t he m ut ed wall.

ANALYSI S
This is an exam ple of how an essay doesn’t necessarily have t o t ell som et hing about
t he aut hor fort hright . Alt hough he succum bs occasionally t o t he use of clichés,
Tessler is t alent ed at writ ing, and he exhibit s t his t alent unrest rained in a piece at
once m yst erious and engaging. I t doesn’t t ry t o be an ordinary essay, nor does it t ry
t o sneak in a list of achievem ent s. Tessler const ruct s t he essay as t hough it were a
paint ing, filling it wit h det ailed color and showing – not t elling – everyt hing he
observes and im agines, unafraid t o delve int o t he abst ract .
Subt le aspect s of Tessler ’s writ ing st yle produce a sense of enigm at ic fant asy which
em phasizes his abilit y t o writ e and yet m ay confuse t he reader./ t he first paragraph
set s t he st age for t he essay by cast ing a “ clouded dream ” of confusion even on t he
part of t he aut hor, unsure of who is in what world, vacillat ing bet ween t he conscious
and subconscious. And in t he last paragraph, he separat es his m ind from him self
and refers t o t his m ind in t he t hird person. Through such t echniques, he envelops
t he reader in his im aginat ion. The st ory is likely t o be different from m ost college
essays and would help inst ill a last ing im pression on his crit ical readership.
Unfort unat ely, som e m ight find t his m yst ery t o be t oo ext rem e. Cert ain
fundam ent al ideas, such as where Tessler is and wit h whom he is int eract ing, are
unclear. And t he point of t he essay seem s lost if one does not consider t he exhibit ion
of writ ing st yle and im aginat ion t o be a m aj or aspect of t he piece. This m ay be t o
Tessler ’s disadvant age if t he adm issions st aff reading t his essay is left m ore in a
st at e of bewilderm ent at what t he essay was about t han of adm irat ion at Tessler ’s
writ ing apt it ude.
For t he m ost part , however, t he reader is likely t o be left wit h a sense of sat isfact ion
aft er reading t his work, part icularly due t o it s unusual nat ure. Taking t he risk of
slight ly confusing t he reader, in t his case, is not inadvisable. I f t he reader is
confused, t he writ ing st yle will cert ainly m ake up for t his. And if t he reader is not
confused, t he essay succeeds in st rengt hening Tessler ’s applicat ion.

哈佛 5 0 篇e ssa y- - 5 。影响

“ Dandelion Dream s”
By Em m eline Chuang
My big sist er once t old m e t hat if I shut m y eyes and blew on a dandelioin puff, all of
m y wishes would com e t rue. I used t o believe her and would wake up early in t he
m orning t o go dandelion hunt ing. How m y parent s m ust have laughed t o see m e
scram bling out in t he backyard, plucking lit t le gray weeds, and blowing out t he
seeds unt il m y cheeks hurt .
I m ade t he m ost out rageous wishes. I wished t o own a m onkey, a parrot , and a
unicorn; I wished t o grow up and be j ust like She- Ra, Princess of Power. And, of
course, I wished for a t housand m ore wishes so I would never run out .
I always believed m y wishes would com e t rue. When t hey didn’t , I ran t o m y sist er
and dem anded an explanat ion. She laughed and said I j ust hadn’t done it right .
“ I t only works if you do it a cert ain way,” she t old m e wit h a lit t le sm ile. I wat ched her
wit h side, adm iring eyes and t hought she m ust be right . She was t en years older
t han m e and knew t he ways of t he world; not hing she said could be wrong. I went
back and t ried again.
Tim e passed, and I grew older. My “ perfect ” sist er left hom e – not t elling m y parent s
where she had gone. Shocked by her apparent fall from grace, I spent m ost of m y
t im e st aring out t he window. I wondered where she had gone and why she hadn’t
t old us where she was going. Occasionally, I wandered out side t o pluck a few
dandelions and wish for m y sist er ’s ret urn. Each t im e, I hoped desperat ely t hat I had
done it t he right way and t hat t he wish would com e t rue.
But it never happened.
Aft er a while, I gave up – not only on m y sist er – but on t he dandelions as well.
Shock had changed t o anger and t hen t o rej ect ion of m y sist er and everyt hing she
had t old m e. The old dream er wit hin m e vanished and was replaced by a harsh
t een- age cynic who t old m e over and over t hat I should have known bet t er t han t o
believe in free wishes. I t chided m e for m y past belief in unicorns and laughed at t he
t hought of m y growing up t o be a five foot eleven, sleek She- Ra. I t t old m e t o st op
being silly and sent im ent al and t o realize t he fact s of life, t o accept what I was and
what m y sist er was, and live wit h it .
For a while I t ried. I abandoned m y old dream s, m y old ideas, and t hrew m yself
ent irely int o school and t he whole dreary rat race of scrabbling for grades and
popularit y. Aft er a t im e, I even began t o com e out ahead and could st art each day
wit h an indifferent shrug inst ead of a defeat ed whim per. Yet none of it m ade m e
happy. For som e reason, I kept on t hinking about dandelions and m y sist er.
I t ried t o forget about bot h, but t he edge of m y anger and disillusionm ent wore away
and t he essence of m y old self st art ed t o seep t hrough again. Despit e t he best
effort s of t he cynic in m e, I cont inually found m yself st aring out at t hose dandelions
– and m aking wishes.
I t wasn’t t he sam e as before, of course. Most of m y old dream s and ideals had
vanished forever. Cert ainly, I could never wish for a unicorn as a pet and act ually
m ean it now. No, m y dream s were different now, less based on fant asy and m ore on
realit y.
Dream s of becom ing a princess in a cast le or a m agical sorceress had changed int o
hopes of som eday living in t he woods and writ ing novels like J. D. Salinger, or
playing Tchaikovsky’s Concert o in A t o orchest ral accom pnim ent . These were t he
dream s t hat float ed t hrough m y m ind now. They were t em pered by a caut ion t hat
hadn’t been t here before, but t hey were t here. For t he first t im e since m y sist er ’s
depart ure, I was acknowledging t heir presence.
I had t o, for it was t hese dream s t hat dilut ed t he pure m eaninglessness of m y daily
st ruggles in school and m ade m e happy. I t was t hese dream s and t he hope of
som eday fulfilling t hem t hat ult im at ely saved m e from falling int o t he clut ches of t he
dreaded beast of apat hy t hat lurked alongside t he t rails of t he rat race. Wit hout
t hem , I t hink I would have given up and st um bled off t he t racks long ago.
I t t ook a long t im e for m e t o accept t his t rut h and t o adm it t hat m y cynical self was
wrong in denying m e m y dream s, j ust as m y yout hful self had been wrong in living
ent irely wit hin t hem . I n order t o succeed and survive, I needed t o find a balance
bet ween t he t wo.
My sist er was right ; I hadn’t been going aft er m y dream s t he right way. Now I know
bet t er. This t im e around, when I go int o t he garden and pick m y dandelion puff, m y
wishes will com e t rue.